DIABLO II: A Hollow Victory
by DarkPoot
Summary: All those who fought with the Prime Evils found that victory was perhaps more bitter than defeat. Now, what shall become of the valiant five who dared to strike down the Three? This is probably my best material thus far, so if you know the game, please R
1. A Welcome of Ashes

All of the concepts, places, and character classes are owned by Blizzard.

I've played Diablo way, WAY too much. So the least I can do is do something creative for all that time.

Author: the Gar'En

Censor: PG-13

All who strove with the Prime Evils met only disaster as their reward. Izual, Tal Rasha, Leoric, and the Wanderer are only a few examples of such ill-fated souls who fought the Darkness and lost. Now, what shall become of the five brave mortals who dared to strike down the Three?

A Hollow Victory

Part 1: A Welcome of Ashes

The cauldron was bubbling slowly, the soup within nearly ready as Luther watched the fire burning slowly in its hearth. How he hated making even this small flame, having to keep it alive until his supper was ready. He hated fire, even when it was controlled and confined within the hearth. He would never be at ease around flames again, not after the flames that he had seen...

He pushed the thought out of his head. Those days were behind him, and the forces of Hell were suppressed...for now. But no matter how much more Luther wished he could for the Light, he had done all he could, more than most other men could be expected to. He had fought the good fight and won, and now, his quests fulfilled, he had sunken back from the throes of society and isolated himself in a small, modest hut in the woods of southern Scogsglen.

While he did not enjoy recalling the things he had seen and done over the course of the last three months, he thought back fondly to his fellow crusaders who had suffered just as he himself had. Barok, the fighter; Velanna, the sorceress; Marn, the warrior-woman; and Tol'Rath, the necromancer. None of them had seemed to like the idea of Luther entering seclusion now that the fighting was over and the Evils were destroyed. Even Tol'Rath had offered him a home in the city of Rathma, but Luther felt best in seclusion, where he could live the life of faith that he sought, devoid of temptation and brimming with piety. Still, he had only seen some nineteen winters; he wondered if there was some deed left undone, some evil left unvanquished.

Indeed, there was, far closer to him than he thought, but he would never realize it within the confines of his hut.

But these thoughts were not really bothering him at the moment. He held his bowl up to the cauldron and began to ladle up some of the soup when suddenly, in one small moment, all the peace that had settled in Luther's life was viciously uprooted. Luther's head cocked up, his bowl shattering on the floor and its contents sizzling in the fire, as he sensed something he hoped he would never encounter again: the undead. Having sworn to rid the world of all the walking dead, Luther had developed a sixth sense that allowed him to pick up on their presence. Having no time to don his armor, he grabbed his sword from its place by the hearth and took to the door.

He already knew what he would find as he opened the door and stepped slowly outside, and sure enough he found himself face to face with six mockeries of life, skeletons animated through terrible magic like nightmarish marionettes. Two of them were the skeletal mages he had striven with so often in his travels, one with spheres of blue, frozen energy around its hands, the other with sparks of electricity. The other four held battered, time-worn weapons in their hands, and while they looked to be in terrible quality, Luther had learned from fighting so many of these terrors that it didn't matter what condition your opponent's weapon was in when it was piercing your heart. Their fleshless faces gazed eerily at him, empty in every possible way, and Luther clutched his sword tighter.

"Thou art Luther, Knight of Zakarum," one of the skeletons said, its voice having more rust than its weapon. Luther cringed at the sound.

"I am," he said fearlessly, though he wasn't sure if the skeleton had asked him a question to begin with.

"Our master has sent us for thee. He wants thee alive. Sheath thy weapon and follow us," the Frost mage said, its voice slightly more alive, yet still painful to the ears.

Luther was confused. "I never thought to see thy kind again. In any case, I see that whatever stygian hole you were hiding in, ye have grown behind on the news. Thy master is dead; his Soulstone is broken, and his spirit shall remain forevermore in Hell that spawned him," he replied confidently. The skeletons were unfazed.

"No. Thou art wrong," the Lightning mage said. "Our master lives. Now come, and follow us to him. He is waiting."

Again, Luther was shocked. Was one of the Prime Evils alive again? Was it possible? Whatever the answers were, he only knew that he would not be following these creatures into their master's waiting hands.

He closed his eyes, calling on all of his holy energies to use against these terrors. One of the skeletons, holding an axe that was old yet sharp, slowly approached the paladin.

"We do not wish to risk killing thee. Our master needs thee in life," it said. Luther gave no response, and perhaps he never even heard the skeleton speak in his deep concentration. Seeing no other alternative, the creature lifted its axe.

In the moment while the axe was raised and before it was brought down again, Luther's eyes opened suddenly. There was an angry blue fire in them, burning with all the fury of the High Heavens and the righteousness of the paladin himself. He shot up his hands toward the skeleton, his open palms burning with the same blue fire, and a bright blue orb of energy issued forth. It struck the skeleton with terrible force, exploding in a brilliant flash of light and exorcising the dark magics that held the skeleton together, reducing it to dust and fragments of bone.

Any living servant of the Dark would have felt at least the slightest bit of fear at this spectacle, but undead can not feel fear. The five remaining skeletons stood hard their ground, gazing with the same empty stares as the holy energy faded from around Luther.

"Go now. Tell thy master that his day is over, and if he casts his shadow anymore over Sanctuary, then he shall taste my wrath a second time," Luther said with an almost-supernatural command in his voice. Once more, though, the skeletons were unshaken. The remaining three warrior-skeletons took firm hold of their weapons and, holding back none of their abilities anymore, charged mercilessly at the paladin. Calling on the power of his own religious fervor, Luther dashed forward and struck with his sword at inhuman speeds, speeds that even the skilled undead were powerless to defend against. After the dust settled, Luther's victory over the three skeletons was clear to all the world as he stood there, surrounded by shattered bone.

His victory, though, was short lived. A pulse of violent electricity suddenly coursed through his body, sending him flying backwards. He dropped his sword in the process, and as he got himself up from the ground, he found himself momentarily weaponless against the two dangerous magi. He leapt forward for the sword, but the frost mage fired a ball of icy energy at the weapon. At first there seemed to be no harm done, but Luther quickly saw what its intent had been as his bare hand touched the hilt. It was beyond freezing, cold to the point where it felt like it was burning. Luther dropped the weapon instantly, unable to hold on to it, and leapt out of the way as another bolt of electricity came at him. Pointing his hands at the thunder mage and concentrating, he fired out another blast of holy energy, dispelling the walking dead quickly.

But just as he was preparing to deal with the remaining mage, he thought he saw some movement in the corner of his eye. He looked down at the bones around him, and saw that they had taken on a slight, almost imperceptible glow. Then, in a sudden flurry of movement, dust, and light, the bones flew up from the ground and joined together again, reforming into the four skeletal warriors and even the thunder mage. This was not a new sight to Luther, but it was never a comforting one. Whatever had raised his foes, he wanted to find it as quickly as possible. Unluckily for him, his wish was granted at that very moment.

The ground shook on and off, as if with the footsteps of some enormous beast. The temperature rose, and the air took on a terrible stench, which seemed to be a combination of sulfur and blood. Dark clouds quickly filled the sky, blotting out the setting sun, and a hideous roar emanated through the woods. Finally, the décor perfect for its arrival, a creature entered into the clearing that seemed the very embodiment of damnation.

It was absolutely terrible to behold. It stood at least fifteen feet tall. Its torso was a mass of writhing human bodies contained within a rib cage of black bones, spikes coming out of the spine in the back. Its arms and legs were made of black stone speckled with bones, with sharp, claw-like bones jutting out the ends. Its head was more akin to a helmet, the upper-jaw of a huge demonic creature, five horns jutting out of the top and long fangs coming out of the bottom. In the eye sockets burned a terrible yellow fire, clearly visible even though the creature's entire body was constantly on fire.

Seeing no other alternative, Luther fell to his knees and prayed...

Barok had been trudging onward for days, hoping to eventually find his home somewhere in the blizzard that was surrounding him. To most other men, the tempest of ice that surrounded the Child of Bul-Kathos would be unendurable, but Barok was not most other men. He had wrestled with the Lord of Destuction himself; a little snow was nothing by comparison. Still, he held his cloak tight around him, if only to keep his armor dry.

He recognized the landmarks around him, and he saw that he was almost home. It was a thought that put great ease on the warrior's mind. When the village elders had sent him out to find and destroy the great evil they had sensed, he hadn't thought to be away for so long. He had hardly imagined where his journey would take him, right up to the gates of Hell itself. Needless to say, it would be good to be back among his blood brothers and friends once more.

He recognized the hill in front of him, and he smiled as he realized that he would be able to see his village from its summit. He noticed that the sky was bright ahead of him, and he thought that the village must have been having a festival of some kind. Perhaps, he thought, they had heard of his arrival and had prepared a welcoming party. He wondered what kind of joyous welcome they had ready for him, imagining banners with his name, and a feast with great mounds of food and an ocean of wine. And even if there was none of this, it would still be enough for him to be back home.

He reached the top of the hill and looked down at the village, and even his strong heart could not suppress the tears that came to his eyes. The light he had seen was not the light of torches or merriment, but the light of ruthless, devouring flame that had swept over the entire village. His home was burning. Without a thought of what he would find, he ran forward in a grieved frenzy as fast as his feet could carry him. He leapt through the ruined gate, sending splinters flying everywhere, and with horrified eyes he surveyed the damage. Everything was either black with ash, red with blood, or still alive with fire. He had seen the atrocities committed by Hell's legions before, but none had touched him so deeply as this, the desecration and destruction of his very home. The bodies of men and children lay everywhere, mangled and ripped in every possible way, while the bodies of women lay naked, bloody, and burnt, unspeakable horrors having been wrought on them.

All he had wanted was to be home. Now there he stood, his loved ones dead, his home destroyed, and his banner's of welcome written with flames. Falling to his knees, Barok let out a thunderous cry of pain that made the hills shake.

"I can not express my sorrow, my friend," a time-worn, comforting voice said. Luckily for all, Barok recognized the voice and did not attack the old man. He turned, and saw Deckard Cain, last of the Horadrim, standing there. Marn and Velanna were there as well, to add to Barok's already-great surprise.

"What has happened?" Barok asked pleadingly, his mighty voice broken with tears.

"I…do not know," Cain said. "I recognize the work of the Burning Hells. I suspect that the forces of the Dark were able to wreak one final vengeance against all of us before their masters fell."

"All of us?" Barok asked. He noticed the grief on Marn and Velanna.

"Our homes were ravaged as well," Marn said. "Not even a single tree was left standing on my whole island."

"The Zann Esu village was decimated as well," Velanna said quietly, trying but failing to be strong as the memories of her home returned to her.

"You saw yourself what became of Tristram, the only home I have ever known," Cain said. "Alas, it seems that none who strive with evil can come away without suffering grizzly losses."

"What is you purpose here, old man?!" Barok shouted, his temper held by a thin string with his sadness. Still, Cain had endured worse.

"I truly hoped that we would arrive in time to save you from the same fate we have suffered," Cain replied. "But I see we are too late to save any of these poor souls. There is nothing we can do but give them proper burial upon our return."

"What do you mean, our return?!" Barok shouted. "Do you suggest that I leave this place in its desecration!? I will not!"

"Barok, please do not make this harder than it is," Velanna said. "We both had to leave our homes in ruin and defilement, in the hope that we could save you from the same."

"It is too late for this place," Marn said. "But we may yet be able to save Luther or Tol'Rath from our pain. We must at least try."

Barok frowned. "Luther has no home, he went off to be by himself in the woods. And I would think Tol'Rath would delight in seeing so many dead bodies."

"There is a difference that even a necromancer knows between the corpse of a stranger and the corpse of a loved one," Cain said. "I know that this is a difficult time for you. But you cannot say that you have suffered any more than your friends here, and yet they left their homes to do what they can to help. Will you not do the same?"

Barok scowled and turned away from them. He knew he had to leave and go with them. Drawing one of his swords from its sheath, he lifted it high into the air and drove it into the ground.

"I will return," he swore...

Coming soon: After a dangerous trek through the jungles of Kehjistan, our heroes arrive in the subterranean temple-city of Rathma. Not even Cain knows of the dangers they will encounter in part two of A Hollow Victory: The City of the Dead.****


	2. The City of the Dead

I don't own Diablo.

Author: The Gar'En

Email: [foilman1@usa.net][1]

Homepage: [http://www.geocities.com/darkforcepro][2]

Well, this part really isn't too exciting, and the title doesn't fit too well. I expected more to happen, but I decided I'd just cut it off where I did. I didn't cut anything out of the actual story, I just divided a would-be part 2 into part 2 and 3.

A Hollow Victory

Part 2: The City of the Dead

Even though Mephisto was gone from the mortal realm, the jungles of Kehjistan where he had reigned were still infested with evil and were still far from safe. The jungle was supposedly in recovery, but a place would take many years of healing to forget the presence of the Lord of Hatred. Some doubted that the jungle would ever be as it was, and there was even talk of evacuating the Kurast docks. In any case, no one had left the docks yet, so there were still plenty of people there when one of the mystical gateways of the Horadrim, known to the uninitiated as Town Portals, opened in the docks. The gateway vanished as the four heroes emerged. While any practicing mage could invoke the nearest Portal, Cain was the only man alive who knew how to access any Portal from any point. This was one of the benefits of having an initiate of the Horadrim travel with you, and Cain and his three young comrades had been able to travel from Barok's village to the docks in a matter of minutes.

Barok looked around at the dilapidated settlement, frowning. "Looks to me like this place hasn't changed much."

"Your perceptions do not lie, warrior," a wise, familiar voice said. The group turned to see a shaman of the native, Skatsimi people of Kehjistan, dressed very lightly and holding an elaborate staff in his hand.

"Greetings, Ormus," Cain offered. He noted the complete lack of surprise on the Skatsimi shaman's face. "You were not expecting us, were you?"

"Ormus did not expect you to return. But he did pray for you to come, and you have answered his prayers," Ormus said, referring to himself in the third person.

"Why? What has happened since we left?" Marn asked quickly. She didn't like the look of the situation at all so far.

"The grief of the jungle has not died in the absence of Mephisto. The dead walk from their graves and strike at the living, and we dare not set foot near Kurast," Ormus said. "Ormus thinks that there is yet a great evil in our lands. Can you not feel it?"

"Are you sure, Ormus?" Velanna argued. "The undead were the lead of Mephisto's minions. It may take months more for the energies that animate them to expire."

"Ormus has thought of this," the shaman said. "But he doubts it is so. The undead very rarely exist without a master, and you have seen to it personally that Mephiso no longer walks this world. Ormus thinks that this is not the work of a Prime Evil, but rather that this is the conjuring of a human necromancer."

Those words were both a comfort and a terror to the four adventurers. That the offender was mortal meant that his powers could not be too extreme, and that he could be feasibly dealt with. But it also implied a variety of things, none of which were definite, but none of which were good.

"Ormus suggests that you go quickly to the City of the Rathma, the hub of mortal necromancy. If his fears are true, then the evil that now plagues the jungle has at least a root in that City," the shaman concluded.

"We were on our way there, anyway," Barok said. "We're looking for Tol'Rath. Remember him?"

"Your necromancer friend. Yes, Ormus and he spoke much during your days here. They spoke of Ormus's stock of wands and his stock of legends. The necromancer seemed particularly interested in Ormus's stories concerning the World Beast."

"The what?" Marn asked.

"Trag'Oul, a dragon that carries the world on its back in the mythology of Rathma," Cain said. "It is no surprise that Tol'Rath would be interested in the legends. It is his religion."

"Have you heard anything from Tol'Rath, Ormus?" Velanna asked hopefully.

"Indeed. And Ormus may yet be able to help you in locating him," the shaman replied, giving the group some hope to go by. "After the defeat of Baal, the necromancer passed through here on his way home. He gave Ormus a map, describing the way to the underground city." He withdrew a scroll from his belt. "This is that map. You are truly fortunate; mortal men have never known the location of the city, save to those who live there. Tol'Rath must have had great trust with you," Ormus finished as he handed over the map.

"Could have fooled me," Marn said callously. There had always been friction between her and the necromancer, almost as great as the bitterness between Tol'Rath and the paladin, Luther. Marn and Tol'Rath simply disagreed on many points(albeit very many); with Luther, both men conflicted with the other's personal and religious beliefs, which led to untold arguments. They were the only ones who found the necromancer especially unpleasant, though. Indeed, Velanna's thoughts towards Tol'Rath were as far from Marn's as possible…

"He was raised in the company of death. It is hardly his fault if he seems a little dark," the sorceress disagreed readily.

Marn gave an exasperated sigh, recognizing the glint she saw in Velanna's eyes. "Gods, I wish I knew what you saw in that creature."

Velanna made no retort to this, only blushing ever so slightly. The sorceress was aged roughly 20 years, not much older than Luther and not much younger than Tol'Rath(though the necromancer acted much older. Growing up in the City of Rathma always brought about an early maturity). Marn and Barok were older, more seasoned warriors, both aged somewhere between 30 and 40 years. Marn and Barok respected each other's prowess as warriors, but nothing else. Luther had taken a voluntary vow of celibacy years before, in an attempt to rid himself of temptation, leaving any sort of relationship with anyone out of the question. But while Tol'Rath seemed oblivious to Velanna's feelings for him, it was an established fact for everyone else that the sorceress loved him so much it hurt.

"Ah, to be young again," Cain said, giving a thoughtful smile for a moment. "But come, friends, we mustn't forget our purpose. Time is of the essence."

Barok nodded, unrolling the map in his hands. Cain noted the baffled look on his face as he saw the map, and walked over to take a look himself. The rest of the group, including Ormus, gathered around to look at the parchment.

"What kind of language is this thing in?" Barok frustrated as he looked over the assortment of odd symbols. He wasn't even sure what symbols were letters or words and which ones were landmarks on the map.

"It is the language of the priests of Rathma," Cain said as he looked at it. "I am afraid that even I know little of it."

"Wonderful," Marn said sarcastically. "Now we have a map we can't even follow. Well, I'm open to suggestions."

After a pause, Ormus spoke. "Ormus may be able to help," the shaman replied, seemingly reluctant to volunteer himself. "Over the years, he has learned a good deal of the language of the Death Priests from their trafficking in this place."

"You can read the map, then?" Velanna asked hopefully.

"He can," Ormus said, again with an apparent unwillingness. "If you truly need a guide to interpret the map, Ormus shall come with you. But be warned, as has been said, the jungle is perhaps just as dangerous as it was under Mephisto. Keep your wits and your weapons about you."

"Very well, then we must leave at once," Cain said. "Time is of the essence..."

Ormus had told the truth; the jungle of Kehjistan was still incredibly dangerous. Only a day's march found the heroes fending off monstrosities of every shape and size, many of which were familiar to the wanderers from their first trek through Kehjistan. The familiarity didn't make the terrors any less dangerous, though, and it was a miracle, as always, that they made it through alive.

Finally, after having to spend three hellish nights in the jungle, the group arrived in front of a tall, foreboding mountain. It was a large, jagged crag, occasionally becoming blindingly bright with the reflection of the lightning bolts that now danced in the sky. Storm clouds were gathered overhead and it rained hard, a common site in the rain forest. Ormus, usually resolute and unflinching, strangely seemed disturbed by the rain.

"What's wrong?" Marn asked, noting the look of unease on Ormus's face.

"The rain. As children, the Skatsimi are wisely taught to stay near their homes when the rain comes. For when one hears the fall of the raindrops, one cannot hear enemies approaching."

"It matters little. If I read this map correctly, we have come to our destination," Cain said, looking at the parchment, trying his best to shield it from the rain. Ormus had been able to teach him a little of the language of the map, and while Cain still only knew a speckling of the language of Rathma, he still knew enough to read the map.

"That is correct," Ormus said, seeming a little relieved. He took a look at the map himself, then turned to the three younger adventurers. "Move the ivy aside," the shaman said, pointing to a section of wild plant growth that had climbed up the wall of the mountain. Barok, Marn, and Velanna obeyed, pulling the vegetation apart like a curtain. Still, there seemed nothing underneath but a sheet of bare, wet rock.

"No entrance," Barok observed. "Do you think Tol'Rath gave us bad directions?"

"That does not seem like him," Velanna said. She seemed worried. "Do you…think we're too late? Maybe there was a cave in..." her voice trailed off.

"That remains to be seen. There is not supposed to be any visual entrance," Cain said. He approached the entrance, standing as straight as he could while still leaning on his staff for support. He cleared his throat and, reading off the map, spoke loudly and clearly:

"Eld homaro belendal, sircu viz delvatonthon."

Immediately, there was a noticeable change in the stone. There was a very straight line going down the middle that no one had seen before, and the line grew larger as the stones slid apart, revealing a dark, spiraling staircase leading downwards.

"There you are," Cain said proudly. "Now, we go forth, into a place where no uninitiated man has ever gone."

"You first," Velanna said to Barok, who in his almost blind courage was already on the top of the staircase.

"Ormus wishes you luck, heroes," Ormus said, keeping his distance from the entrance. "May you find the city and your friend as well in good health."

"Aren't you coming with us?" Marn asked, right behind Barok.

"This is as far as he shall go with you," Ormus said. "I have interpreted your map, and I doubt you shall have need for an interpreter in the city. Though no man who was not born there has ever seen this place, Ormus has no wish to enter. He has heard things of it that he has no intention for seeing himself." With that, he closed his eyes and held out his staff, conjuring a blue portal of light. "When you leave, please return to the docks with news of your adventure, be it happy or sad."

"Very well. May we meet again soon, and with good news," Cain wished.

"May the Light guide your way," Ormus wished as he stepped through the Town Portal, returning to the docks. The portal vanished behind him.

"Let us go," Velanna said as the four began their downward trek...

----------------------------------------------------

Coming soon: our heroes travel down into the bowels of the world, finally entering into the long-lost City of Rathma, and none can imagine the terror and surprises that wait for them there. And while they have thought little of him, the reader must wonder what has become of Luther the paladin. And what of Tol'Rath, the heretofore unseen necromancer? You shall have your answers in Part 3 of A Hollow Victory: Ambush.

   [1]: mailto:foilman1@usa.net
   [2]: http://www.geocities.com/darkforcepro



	3. Ambush

I don't own Diablo. I wouldn't take any of Blizzard's thunder.

Author: The Gar'En

Email: [foilman1@usa.net][1]

Homepage: [http://www.geocities.com/darkforcepro][2] . ß GO HERE! Your life may just depend on it…MUHAHAHAHA!(throws a smoke bomb on the floor and vanishes).

Once again, there has been a change in plans in the story. I think I'm just going to stop with the previews of the next section, because so far none of them have been true to the actual next part.

A Hollow Victory

Part 3: Ambush

The spiral staircase leading downwards was narrow, dark, and slippery, almost as treacherous as the jungle the four adventurers had just left. Barok walked in the lead, holding a torch that Velanna had helped ignite, leading the way as if there was any choice of paths.

"I hear nothing," Velanna said, worried, as she listened to the surrounding silence for any sign of life.

"We cannot be sure that that is out of the ordinary for this place," Cain reassured her. "The City of the Dead does not seem like a place to be flowing with life."

There was silence after this, every set of ears straining to hear anything beyond the crackle of the torch and the echo of their own footsteps. The silence wasn't broken for another several minutes, at which point Barok spoke.

"There's light up ahead," he whispered back, with Velanna barely hearing him from her spot at the rear of the procession. There was no discussion on this, and after a few more minutes of descending the perilous staircase, the four heroes came upon a great archway, the border covered in strange necromantic symbols. No one looked much at the archway, though, for it was the scene that lay beyond it that they were interested in. For the archway was the entrance to the City of Rathma, and through it they could see that city which no man other than the necromancers had ever seen before.

The scene seemed to be from some sort of nightmare, just like many of the things the heroes had seen in the past months. The city itself was nothing too unusual; the dirt streets were lined with structures wrought of cold, gray granite, all overseen by the dark sky of stone that formed a rough dome high above the city. While the shadowy city, lit only dimly despite the great number of torches, was a bit spooky, the real fear came from the fact that nothing was happening. The entire city was as still and quiet as the stone it was made of.

"We're too late," Velanna said sadly. But Cain's words gave some small hope back.

"I do not think it is so," the old man said, studying the situation carefully. "This is not the handiwork of the Hells. It is far too...clean."

"Then what do you think's happening? Do you think everyone's asleep?" Barok asked.

"Perhaps. Perhaps they are also waiting to see if we are friend or foe. They do not receive many visitors, I imagine," Cain speculated. "Sheath your weapons. We do not want them to think we are enemies."

"How do we know that 'they' are friends?" Marn asked. "We still don't know that there's any 'they' out there to speak of." Cain could not answer this. They put away their weapons nonetheless, seeing the wisdom in Cain's words, and proceeded.

They walked on, hearing nothing but the sound of their own feet now that there was no need for a torch. Each set of hungry eyes was busily devouring the landscape, searching for any sign of life or activity. There was none.

"I don't care what you say," Marn said suddenly. "There's something definitely wrong here."

"Until we are certain, keep your arms at ease," Cain said. Barok ignored him.

"Marn's premonition is enough certainty for me. It hasn't misled us once yet, unlike you with all due respect," Barok said, drawing his sword. Before Cain could say a word, Marn had a javelin ready. Velanna seemed reluctant to go against Cain, but she could also sense something wrong with the place and so readied her staff.

Seemingly in reply, there was suddenly movement all around them. It took some time for the shapes in the shadows to become clear, but they were soon visible as skeletal warriors, bearing surprisingly new-looking weapons and armor. The sight was not at all unusual; after all, they were in the capitol of mortal necromancy.

Cain sighed. "Just as I feared. Now they perceive us as a threat. Quickly, put away your weapons, or they may attack!"

"Then bring it on!" Barok shouted, holding his sword in aggressive stance. Marn held her javelin high, taking careful aim, and Velanna's eyes and hands took on a bright blue glow as she invoked a spell of ice. The skeletons, weapons ready, began a slow advance on the heroes.

Just as all hell was about to break loose, a strong, yet somehow empty voice rang out, commanding its audience.

"Halt!" the voice called out. The skeletons backed off quickly, kneeling with their weapons. The bewildered heroes turned to see the speaker who had called off the battle, and lo! standing there before them in the dusty, dead street was none other than Luther, the mighty paladin. He was dressed in silvery steel armor, covering his entire body except for the neck and above. His hands were empty, with his sword sheathed by his side.

"Luther? What in the Light are you doing here?" Velanna asked, beating all of her confused comrades to the question. They had all assumed Luther was living peacefully in seclusion, many miles from Kehjistan. And yet here he was. It seemed they had been right to think something was wrong with the situation of the city, though how utterly wrong it was they were yet to see.

"I am fine. I merely came to see Tol'Rath," Luther said calmly. His voice seemed off somehow, but then everything they had seen since they had returned to Kehjistan had seemed off somehow.

"You came all this way to see him? Why? I thought you hated him," Barok said.

"We have had our disagreements," Luther allowed. "But…I have had much time to ponder many things in my seclusion. I came to seek the necromancer, for he knows much of the balance of all things. I wished to seek his council, that I may answer some of the great questions I have pondered."

The answer seemed to fit Luther perfectly, yet not one of the four heroes was convinced. Marn had the urge to ask 'Why'd you really come?", but suppressed it, supposing that she would receive more answers if she played along.

"Have you found Tol'Rath?" Cain asked.

"I have," Luther responded. Suspicions were running thick by now. "He would like to see thee."

"How did he know we were coming?" Velanna asked quickly. It was easy to ask questions to a man when you suspected every word he spoke.

"He knows much, my friends. More than he did when last we met," Luther said cryptically. "Come. He is waiting." He started walking down the street, the skeletons following.

"Do you think we should go?" Barok asked.

"Yes. There is something wrong, you can be sure, but we will never get to the bottom of it unless we follow," Cain said. The other three gave nods of agreement, and followed after the paladin and his unlikely skeleton troops.

They were led down the dark stone streets of the city, turning here and there. It seemed that Luther knew his way around the city, which only added to suspicions. Barok made a point not to sheathe his sword, or Marn her javelin.

After about an hour of traveling, the group came to a large building. The entrance of it was carved in granite, in the likeness of a large dragon's head, the stairs leading up through the mouth to the doorway. A foul, unfamiliar smell issued out of the entrance, a smell that bore a likeness to the now-familiar smell of death, and yet was different.

"Here?" Barok asked.

"Yes. Tol'Rath waits within," Luther said as he and the skeletons began to ascend the stairs. The other four reluctantly followed, completely alert.

The inside of the structure was surprisingly plain, but no less unsettling. The walls and floor were blank. All that was in the room was a thin spiral staircase, leading downward beneath the floor and who knows how much further. The paladin and his skeletal companions stood still next to the beginning of the staircase.

"What do you wait for?" Cain asked.

"I wait for thee," Luther replied. "I can go no further right now. I will meet with thee later on."

Barok, Marn, Velanna, and Cain exchanged worried looks, and silently agreed to proceed. Barok, the hardiest, walked up to the staircase first. The descent was lined with torches. He took a step on the first stair, when suddenly a sound like metal, more precisely like weapons, clashing together. A cry quickly followed.

Barok had had enough. He was not of patient blood, and he wanted answers. He turned to Luther, anger in his eyes.

"Alright, holy man, you don't have to pretend that nothing's going on anymore! What's happening!" Luther looked at him, his eyes like those of a steer looking knowingly at a hunter. He said nothing, though his jaw seemed to be quivering. Velanna, the closest to him, noticed his eyes were tearing slightly. "TELL ME, DAMN YOU!"

"Tol'Rath…is a…good man," he said with great effort. "Go. He is waiting."

Barok wasn't about to proceed, but Cain persuaded him to. Something was now obviously happening, if not in the city then underneath it. And they would put an end to it.

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As promised, there's no preview this time.

I think I got a little carried away with the old fashioned writing in this part. Like that one sentence with 'lo!'. Whatever.

If you should feel the need to review, then whether you liked it or not, please tell me what I can do to improve! I know I'm not perfect, I just want to get better!

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	4. Forgiven

What, me own Diablo?

Author: The Gar'En

Email: [foilman1@usa.net][1]

Homepage: [http://www.geocities.com/darkforcepro][2] : My homepage. Its slogan is 'Visit and sign the guestbook, or be damned for all eternity'.

A Hollow Victory

Part 4: Forgiven

Even Cain was holding his staff in an offensive position as they descended the staircase. A few months ago, Barok probably would have burst out laughing at the concept of the feeble old man trying to defend himself, but his journeying had taught him to never judge by appearances. Cain was old and feeble indeed, but the fact remained that he was an initiate, albeit the last one, of the Horadrim. There was no telling what surprises he had in his arsenal. 

The staircase spiraled down further and further. They judged correctly that they were now far below the city, with the strange odor they had first smelt in the temple growing ever stronger with each passing step. And there were a great deal of passing steps.

"At this rate, we ought to be coming out the other side of Sanctuary soon," Marn joked. She got some laughter with this, but the dark atmosphere of the staircase seemed to forbid laughter. Their chuckles echoed along the walls, so that it seemed almost like the structure was laughing at them. It was extremely disturbing, and there were no more jokes after that.

"What's that smell?" Barok asked as a foul gust of wind blew the stench even harder at him.

"I do not know, my friend. I have known many stenches of man and devil, and I am unfamiliar to this one," Cain answered.

"Does anyone else notice that the stones down here are different from the ones we saw higher up?" Velanna noted. It seemed trivial, but they all took a moment to look at the walls.

"Yeah, they do seem a little different," Barok said. "But it was made of bricks up further. This, it looks like they just carved it out of the rock itself."

"Yes. It does seem a little lighter in color, though," Marn said as she studied it. "Its probably a different kind of stone. Come on, let's keep moving."

"Wait," Cain said, a glimmer of horror in his voice. He was studying the wall, his hand moving along it. "This...this is not stone at all."

He got three pairs of wide eyes in response. "What do you mean? If it's not stone, what is it?"

Cain took a moment to study the wall to confirm his suspicion. Velanna joined him, and it was she that reached the answer first. She didn't say it, though, she was trying to hard to suppress the urge to vomit.

"Its flesh," Cain said forebodingly. "Some terrible manner of flesh."

Marn cocked an eyebrow, not ready to believe this at first. Not wanting to lose anything useful if it proved to be stone after all, she took an expendable arrow from her quiver and held it tight in her hand, much like a dagger. Lifting it high, she struck the wall with all her might. She saw quickly that Cain was right once again; the arrow drove into the tough hide, causing thick, black blood to drip out. Thankfully, there was no pulse, so the quite poisonous blood didn't spray out and hit anyone.

"Whatever this belongs to, it looks like its dead," Barok stated.

For once, Cain was out of ideas. "I can not fathom where we are or what this phenomenon means. I am open to suggestion, heroes," Cain stated.

"What decision is there? We're going down," Barok said plainly, with all the fearless determination of a man who has nothing left to lose.

"We are obviously going into a trap. We heard something fighting down here, and Luther did not quit seem in his mind when he was talking with us," Velanna said.

"I agree. One way or the other, though, I have a feeling that whatever evil Ormus told us of, we shall be meeting with it soon," Cain foresaw.

Time was not a thing that mattered in that place of death; who could say how long they were walking down the stairs into the abyss? Eventually, the monotonous journey through the stairway of flesh ended, the stairs finally merging with a solid floor, leading out through a crude-cut doorway and out into a large, unlit corridor.

"Velanna, this is a job for you," Barok said. The sorceress closed her eyes and held her staff vertically in both hands. The tip of the staff suddenly burst into flames, a mystic fire that did no damage to the weapon but provided a good source of light. Even with this magic torch, though, the darkness in the corridor was complete, and either end of the hall(if there was an end to speak of) was hidden with a thick veil of shadows.

"Which way do we go?" Marn asked. Cain was carefully studying the corridor; it was also composed of flesh instead of stone. The hallway seemed completely bare and empty. Suddenly, on the edge of the circle of light given off by Velanna's staff, Cain thought he saw something. It wasn't moving; it was a small, round object, like a rock by the small detail he could make out of it.

"There is something over there," Cain said, pointing to the alleged stone. Velanna walked over, and as the light bathed over it, they were all quick to see that it was no stone Cain had seen, but a skull, with a matching headless skeleton lying a few feet away. The skeleton held a sword in its thin hands, with a chain mail shirt hanging from its ribcage. Both armor and weapon were new, without a smudge of rust or tarnish on them.

"This happened recently. Real recently," Barok said as he stooped over and examined the remains. "You suppose this was the fighting we heard before?"

"I wouldn't doubt it," Velanna said. "What I would like to know is where the other combatant is. If this skeleton and its master are our enemies, then perhaps its opponent is our friend."

"A logical deduction, Velanna," Cain agreed. "But I hear nothing in these halls, so..."

"So your hearing is failing with your age, old one," an unfamiliar, ugly voice called out from somewhere in the darkness. Instantly, every set of arms and every spell of offense was on the ready, and the four heroes were searching the shadows everywhere. The voice just laughed, an even uglier sound than its speech. There was movement in the shadows to the side, and the heroes watched as a body entered the light to match the voice. The creature that stepped forward wore an elaborate suit of silver and black armor, with a brilliant gold cape flowing down its back. Though the armor was beautiful, the proportions of the body underneath were like that of a walking beast, with a hunched back and unnaturally thick muscles. It held a beautifully crafted long sword, one which seemed to glow slightly in the darkness. Lastly, its head was covered by a large helmet and face mask, crafted to look like a beautiful, angelic face, which added even more to the holy/unholy dichotomy of the creature.

"I am glad to see you are on your guard! Yes, very glad indeed! You are right to expect that you are in great danger," it said, though they couldn't see its mouth moving underneath the mask. "But the danger is not from me, my brave friends." In a most unexpected turn of events, the creature sheathed his sword and knelt before the four, bowing his head in reverence.

Barok looked at the creature with great confusion. He suddenly gave out a hearty laugh. "Get up, thing! I don't know how many angels you had to kill to get that armor, but there's not one of us here who can't see that you're some kind of demon."

The creature stood as directed, but otherwise seemed unaffected by the remark. "Did I ever say I was not a demon?" it countered. "And no angel died so I could wear this armor, warrior; the armor they made willingly. Indeed, it was a gift. They were also glad to accept when I asked them for the mask, that I may hide from myself what I truly am." To show what exactly he truly was, the creature took hold of the bottom of the mask and swung it up on its hinge, revealing a gruesome, demonic visage of red skin, dark yellow eyes, and a row of needle-like teeth. "No angel am I, no matter how much I yearn to be reborn out of my current lineage. But I remain a demon." He pulled the mask down again, hiding his face again. "My name is Vragath, and I am at your service, heroes who felled the Evils."

Apparently, the name didn't mean anything to anyone except Cain, who's eyes grew steadily wider as he remembered more and more of what he'd heard about the demon Vragath.

"Then you are Vragath, the Forgiven One, are you not?" Cain asked, not sure whether it was 'yes' or 'no' he was hoping for.

"Indeed I am, Deckard Cain," Vragath answered. Cain didn't bother asking how he knew his name, and everyone else was too busy trying to see if they'd missed something. "I doubt there is any other demon called Vragath, for one thing. Last I heard, it has become an immensely unpopular name since my desertion."

"Cain, do you know this creature?" Marn asked, becoming characteristically impatient.

"Please, Marn, some respect. I have never had the pleasure of meeting him, but Vragath the Forgiven is renowned in the lore of the Horadrim. He is the only demon in the history of Creation to forsake the darkness and join the Light."

"The only one to be successful at it, to be more accurate," Vragath interjected. "Many have seen the Light, but the Hells, as you can imagine, do not take kindly to desertion."

"Then you're like a demonic Izual? An ascended demon, as opposed to a fallen angel?" Velanna asked.

"It was not Izual's choice to convert to the darkness; it was beaten into him, and even then he never wholly submitted. As I understand, his rehabilitation is going quite nicely in the High Heavens," Vragath answered. "I was quite willing to make the change, and I opened my soul to the Light. I suppose that some of the old shadows are still prowling around in my mind, but I am not an agent of destruction any longer. I am like you said, an ascended demon in a matter of speaking, though the correct term is 'forgiven'."

"The lore of the Horadrim say that you maintain and defend an ancient strong hold of the Dark that the Heavens captured many years ago," Cain stated. "Is it true? Is this, then, a disused fortress of the Hells?"

"Indeed, and at one of its entrances you now stand. Though I am not sure I would use the word 'stronghold' to describe this place," Vragath said. "Are you aware that the walls are not of stone?"

"Yes. We found that out on our way down," Barok answered. "Leave it to Mephisto to make a fortress out of flesh and blood."

"There you go again, calling this place a fortress. This is not a building by most definitions of the word, but more like a living siege engine that is now dead. Many years ago, you see, even before Sanctuary was created or I was born, the Three Brothers developed plans for the most powerful, nightmarish creature that had ever come from the Burning Realm, even more powerful than the Brothers yet completely enslaved to their will. It was a dragon, an enormous, terrible beast, larger than any creature ever born of Light or Darkness. Even I can scarcely comprehend its size; they say that a continent was too small for it to lay on without touching the water from the ocean bordering it. I know it sounds preposterous, but I know it to be true. For when, after a terrible, long battle, during which many of the angels were slain and the Arch-angel Tyrael himself was taken captive, the beast was finally slain, and to safely entomb its carcass, they built a world around it. This is that world, Sanctuary, and you stand now in the corpse of the great beast that serves as its foundation."

Of course, while Marn and Barok were trying to digest this, Velanna and Cain were already preparing their replies. "That story seems familiar, somehow," Velanna said.

"It is no wonder; the followers of Rathma somehow found out about the legend, and took this beast as their deity. Many call it the World Beast, but some call the monster by its true name: Trag'Oul."

"We are standing in the World Beast?!?" Cain exclaimed, looking around wildly, in sudden recognition.

"Not so loudly, friend," Vragath hushed. "Yes, this is Trag'Oul, the World Beast, but we are not alone in this place. I see that you have noticed the skeleton that I battled earlier. It is the work of a mortal necromancer, one who has been corrupted by the Evils. Somehow he managed to sneak himself and his minions into this place, and have taken such a firm foothold in it that even I am unable to dislodge them. I have failed in my guardianship."

"What's the necromancer trying to do?" Marn asked. She was beginning to think she would never hear of a necromancer she thought highly of.

"I am unsure, but there is nothing good that he could have planned for this place. There is so much I have to explain, but I fear we have little time to converse. I have sent many distress calls to the Angels, but so far you are the only reinforcements I have received, and I doubt you are here on Heaven's command."

"No. Actually, we're here looking for Tol'Rath," Velanna said.

"You have followed a strange path to seek your necromancer friend," Vragath said with a note of confusion. He apparently knew everything about the heroes. "I can understand how you would come to the City of Rathma, but I do not see how you could have thought to find him beneath the Dragon Temple."

"Well, Luther told us to go down the stairs. We expected a trap, but…" Velanna started. Vragath interrupted her.

"Luther told you to come down the stairs? Luther the Paladin? If he is not with you, what was he doing in the City?" Vragath asked.

"That was our question for him," Barok said. "I could tell his answer was a lie, too. Something strange is going on here."

"Yes, stranger than I suspected, as of a minute ago," Vragath said.

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Once again, as short chapter, though I got just about everything I wanted finished. Big surprises are planned for the coming parts, so keep your eyes peeled.

Very little to write here. Um…Chemistry sucks. That's about all I can think of.

Once more, if you're going to review, please tell me what I can do to improve.

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	5. A Coming Darkness

Author: The Gar'En

Email: [foilman1@usa.net][1]

Homepage: [www.geocities.com/darkforcepro][2] ßCome on in. The madness is fine.

This part's pretty boring, but hey, I promise the next part will be the most interesting yet!

Ah, now this is the way a necromancer is supposed to be! Not those…THINGS you see in the game!

A Hollow Victory

Part 5

A Coming Darkness

"They have arrived," Luther said with a pain in his voice almost as strong as the former authority. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he knelt before the dark, corrupted man responsible for most, if not all, of the recent troubles and tragedies. He was indeed the same necromancer that Ormus and Vragath had warned of, the most powerful to ever follow the line of Rathma. He sat on a bony protrusion that served as a throne of the most vile kind, and the chamber he, the Paladin, and his minions occupied (most likely some kind of disused organ of the late World Beast) was lit only by the small torch that Luther himself carried, entirely for his own benefit since the necromancer's eyes had no trouble piercing the dark.

"Excellent. I suppose they shall be meeting with that idiot demon soon," the dark sorcerer said, referring to Vragath. The light of Luther's torch was not enough to illuminate the necromancer's face; he was clothed in a long black robe with a hood over his face. Luther was trembling, perhaps out of fear, perhaps from the mental struggle he fought, and perhaps a mix of the two. "Now, it is our time to act. The Heart Chamber is prepared; there is but one more matter of which to attend." He turned his head to a platoon of skeletons gathered on one side of his throne. "Bring me the two warriors and the mage-girl. You may use as much force as necessary, but see to it that those three live." The skeletons gave nods of acknowledgement and began marching off. The look of panic and confusion in Luther's eyes, though it had been there for the last few hours, became slightly greater suddenly.

"Master, what of Vragath and Cain? Surely they pose as much threat to us as…" the enslaved Paladin started. The necromancer suddenly raised his arm, and Luther suddenly found himself unable to speak, or even breath. It was rather a violent way to interrupt.

"Hmm…you know, I think I like you much more when you are silent, fool of a warrior," the necromancer said like a man speaks to a disliked dog. He lowered his arm again, and Luther gasped for air as his ability to breathe was restored to him. "I am not concerned with the three crusaders because of the threat they pose. You of all people know that they are powerless against me. But I do require their presence; they are yet to serve their purpose to me. As for the demon and the old fool…" he turned to the skeletons again. They stopped and turned back to face their master. "Subdue Vragath as best you can; I doubt you can actually kill him, but do what you can." The sorcerer paused in thought, stroking his chin as he considered something. He did not think long before he had reached his decision: "And the old man is of no use to me…you are to kill Deckard Cain."

Luther closed his eyes, though this was insufficient to hold back his tears…

"Ah, I finally have the chance to meet the great sage, Deckard Cain," Vragath said proudly as the group began walking. "You come from a long, heroic line, and you have more than fulfilled the expectations of your station."

"If anyone has surpassed expectations, it is you, my friend," Cain replied. "If you do not mind, what exactly is required for Forgiveness, to let the Heavens lay trust in you? I doubt that Heaven has a specific procedure planned out, to deal with a case as isolated as your own."

"Indeed, they do not," Vragath said. His mood seemed to grow a little darker at the mention of it. "In all reality, I am not truly Forgiven; merely closer to it than any before me. Forgiveness by the High Heavens for any charge requires a unanimous decision by the Divine Council…and that, concerning anything, is a rare thing indeed. Last they heard my plea- some ten score years ago- I had fewer than half. They trust me only enough to hold this fortress, that has never been attacked from the day Heaven captured it, up to only a few days ago, when the necromancer arrived. Needless to say, after countless ages of nothing, he certainly had the element of surprise with him."

"Ah, failure of a guardianship. A tragedy I have known only too well," Cain sighed. "I know it is worth little, but I do not think you should carry the blame for this. No one ever imagines that after eons of time have passed, that their time shall be the one when disaster strikes. I still have nightmares of the Archbishop descending into the monastery and smashing the Soulstone…and how I was nowhere to stop him. O, the suffering that would have been averted if I had only upheld my guardianship…"

"Perhaps, but one lesson I doubt you have not learned is not to weep for yesterday," Vragath said. "We can only do what we can to protect tomorrow."

Marn and Barok were walking side by side down the passage. Theirs was a strange relationship; Barok had always thought rather lowly of women, and Marn the same of men. They each believed the opposite sex to be flawed beyond hope of recovery, to be weak on many levels and inferior to their own gender. They had also both proved the sole exception to the other's rule. Marn had once commented in the past that it was a pity Barok had not been born a woman. Barok was laughing long after that.

There was a definite, deep camaraderie between the two, and though they often got into arguments about the virtues of certain weapons and tactics, there was no bitterness in these debates. Indeed, Velanna often called them 'lovers' quarrels', to which Marn was always quick to silence her with a snide comment concerning the sorceress and Tol'Rath.

At that moment, though, they walked on in complete silence. Marn seemed willing to speak, and had tried to spur conversation several times, but the barbarian kept very much to himself. It was beginning to get on Marn's nerves.

"Alright, man," she started at Barok. To her, the term 'man' was a sufficient name for all males, whereas Barok had held the word 'woman' as description enough for all females. They only used the terms for each other either in jest or, in this case, when they were annoyed with each other. "Speak up. What's wrong with you?"

Barok could have played dumb, but had no desire to. He knew what she meant. "Our villages are still smoldering, our kin are rotting in the sun, and we're here hunting down an insane necromancer." He turned his head and looked at Marn with heavy eyes. "I thought this war was supposed to be over."

Marn tired hard to think of some comforting way to answer this, but all she could think to say was the truth:

"So did I…" There was silence between them again, both of them far too strong and proud to weep as their heavy hearts told them to.

Velanna walked alone in the lead, holding her blazing staff up high to give light to their path. The smell of the place was offensive in the extremes; it was like spoiled meat, mixed with sulfurous, bloody scent of the Hells and a unique foulness that bore likeness to no other odor she knew of. It was so revolting Velanna was amazed the air was breathable at all. She tried to generate something cheery to think of, but she found that, with her home burnt, Tol'Rath unaccounted for, and a new peril having presented itself, there was very little cheer in her life to dwell on.

Still, she made due with what she had, and her thoughts began to wander back to Tol'Rath. She remembered the first time they met, in a cave back in Khanduras. The circumstances of their meeting were unusual to say the least; after hiding in the shadows and witnessing Tol'Rath's power to raise the dead, Velanna had immediately assumed that he was an agent of Evil. When she threw the first attack, Tol'Rath was quick to assume she was the same, and they got into quite a fight before they realized they were on the same side. After that, they decided that it would be best to travel together, since they were bound to be going on the same path. They traveled alone together for quite some time, until they met Barok and Marn during the attack on the Monastery(they came upon Luther later on, in Lut Gholein). By that time, Velanna was in love.

But the recent events left Tol'Rath's current condition in serious doubt. Cain had told her once that the Great Conflict never ends, and that the only way for mortals to live peaceful lives is to stay far, far away from it. She wished someone had told her that before she left her village.

She didn't want to think of it anymore. She fell back to Cain and Vragath, who had fallen into silence.

"If you do not mind my asking, where are we going?" she asked.

"This tunnel runs along next to a major vein of the World Beast. If we continue following it, it shall take us to the Heart, where, likelier than not, we shall find our quarry," Vragath answered.

"Why the Heart? What's the significance?" Marn asked as she walked up to meet their pace, happy to have something else to talk about.

"I am not certain, but I can make a guess that he means to revive Trag'Oul," Vragath answered forebodingly. "Can you imagine the calamity that would follow if this creature, the foundation of this world, were to come to life for just a moment? There would be a monstrous, global earthquake, shifts in weather, alteration of lands. Oceans would become deserts, and deserts oceans," the demon went on, his hideous voice amplifying the terror in the imagery. "Any survivors would be lucky indeed."

"Or immortal," Barok suddenly said. Marn felt somehow relieved that he had spoken, albeit two words.

"If he were to do this, the Heart would be the place to do it then?" Cain asked. Vragath nodded.

"Correct. The chamber containing the Heart was supposedly designed with the capability to revive Trag'Oul, though I do not know the required procedure and cannot imagine how the necromancer would know," Vragath said.

"Its much better to overestimate an enemy than to underestimate him," Barok said. "If you assume the worst from your enemy, you will be prepared for anything. My village shaman told me that before I left for the Rogue Monastery. It didn't help much then; my enemies were so much worse than I could have imagined. But now, they seem like pretty wise words to follow."

"Yes, it is my job to fear the worst, I am afraid," Vragath said. "For all I know, this necromancer could only be having a picnic of some kind in the belly of the world, and was fighting me off from his food. But no, I cannot begin to expect life to suddenly become so kind to me. I know this sorcerer has dark plans for Trag'Oul, and the world built on his back."

"I suppose it matters little what his plans are, as long as we can reach him in time to keep them from reaching fruition…eh, is something wrong, Marn?" Cain asked. He had looked over to the amazon, who had stopped walking suddenly, and saw that her whole body was in a tense, waiting position, her eyes fixed deep ahead toward the shadows before them. The rest of the group stopped as well, and Marn's hand slowly, silently crept into her quiver and selected an arrow. As soon as she had the arrow in her fingers, her body exploded into motion, her hand whipping the arrow out of the quiver and placing it on her bow as she lifted it up. Seemingly without even aiming, she launched the arrow forward, coated in an aura of fire. It sped into the shadows, further and further, until it was almost out of sight. Just when it was about to leave the radius of visibility, however, the arrow detonated, shedding light for a moment all over the passage many yards ahead of them. In the light of the explosion, the heroes got a fleeting glimpse of twenty or so skeletons, accompanied by one warrior of more-solid build, and while they weren't sure if it was reality or illusion, they also thought they saw a much, much larger shadow behind them all, right where the arrow had impacted. Only Vragath was certain of the reality of the latter.

"To arms, fellows," Vragath said as he drew his angelic blade. "The undead are stronger than most, but there is one creature there that is stronger even then I."

"Which one is that?" Velanna asked.

"Believe me, you shall know it when you see it," Vragath said, shuddering with memories from his first encounter with the creature he warned of. "Get behind me, friend Cain. There is no need for you to be hurt in this battle."

"Nonsense! I may not be as strong as our young friends here, but I was trained a Horadrim, and there is yet some magic in these old bones," Cain said, with some pride in his aged voice, as he held his staff in both hands and closed his eyes. Vragath still wasn't sure about it, but he assumed that Cain knew what he was doing.

Now that they had been spotted, the necromancer's soldiers had no need to continue hiding themselves. The heroes shielded their eyes as a bright light ignited in the hall before them, where their enemies were, and they were horrified when with what they saw in the light. There were far more skeletons then they'd seen at first, and at their current distance, they could recognize the armor of the other warrior as that of Luther, their paladin friend. But most horrifying of all was the source of the light itself: a towering monster, with a torso of naked, writhing, seemingly living human bodies contained within a giant cage of black ribs. Its spiked spine ran down its back and connected to two thick legs crudely carved out of black stone. Its arms were similar, crudely carved out of the same, though they were tipped with enormous steel claws. Its head was a demonic skull, its bottom jaw gone and two tusks running down in its place. Rather than eyes, there was a bright yellow fire burning in its eye sockets, underneath its towering horns. It was at least fourteen feet tall, excluding the horns, and its entire form was burning with hellish flame.

"That thing you were telling us about?" Barok asked of this most recent monstrosity. Vragath nodded, and Barok nodded in acknowledgment. "Good. Let's see how tough it is."

And in moments, it had begun.

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**Coming, in A Hollow Victory: Part 6:**

BATTLE! Yes, finally, glorious combat! Will Luther overcome his enslavement to the Necromancer? Will Cain live, or will the last of the Horadrim go the way of his ancestors? Will any of our heroes escape capture, or worse? And where, WHERE is Tol'Rath when he is needed the most? These questions and more will, perhaps, be answered in the next addition of **Diablo II: A Hollow Victory**…

I've decided to leave this off here. The next part may be the conclusion, so wait and see.

I was thinking of bringing Tyrael and Izual into this, but I've decided it best to just leave it at the characters here and do the Tyrael-Izual thing as a separate fic. Keep your eyes peeled for it.

If you review(and PLEASE review), please tell me what you think of the story, and most of all, what I can do to improve(that means YOU TOO, **ALPHA DRACONIS!**).

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	6. Enter: The Necromancer

There comes a time in a man's life when he just has to sit down and ask himself, "Do I own Diablo?" I can speak for myself when I say I don't, and I'm comfortable with it.

Author: The Gar'En

Email: [foilman1@usa.net][1]ß Mail me!

Homepage: [www.geocities.com/darkforcepro][2]ß Visit me!

A Hollow Victory

Part 6

Enter: The Necromancer

"Luther? What are you doing?" Marn asked to the holy warrior who seemed to be leading the unholy march against them.

Luther didn't answer, and as he approached Marn could see a look of absolute pain on his face. His brown skin was creased with mental suffering, and Marn could see that he had no desire to be where he was, doing what he was doing. As he got closer still, he whimpered two words in a teary voice:

"Forgive me." Then he drew his long sword, and lunged forward. Marn only narrowly dodged as he took a swing at her. She tried to spear him through his leg, not wanting to bring a fatal wound to a man she wasn't sure was her enemy, but he still managed to parry. Marn had seen Luther fight many times before, and she had to admit she hoped she'd never find herself in her current position, on the other side of his sword. Still and all, a challenge was a challenge, and far-be-it from an Amazon warrior to fear a battle. She tightened her grip on her spear, summoning sparks to the tip and empowering it with electricity.

Luther had taken the same few seconds to summon his own potent energies. He held his sword up, both hands on the hilt, and a dull glow began to radiate from his body. He called upon his innermost strength, sheathing his body in an aura of might and doubling his strength.

Both attacks released at the same time, Marn jabbing forward with her lighting-charged spear, Luther bringing down his sword with all his being. Marn aimed not for Luther, though, but for the sword in his hand, hoping to knock it free and subdue Luther with as little violence as possible. Her aim was true as steel, her spearhead striking right in the middle of the sword, but the result was not at all as she had intended.

Luther's aura made him stronger than she had anticipated, and not only did the sword stay fast in his hands, it also stayed traveling right on its course. It drove down on the spearhead, completely overwhelming the weapon. There was a loud crack as the head and the top of the shaft of the spear snapped off, leaving a large crack running down the remainder of the wooden shaft. Luther's sword had been diverted, but now Marn was unarmed.

But she would not be claimed so easily. With blinding speed she reached behind her back for her bow, releasing it from her back and drawing an arrow out. Her speed was too great for Luther to have reacted to, but one of the skeletons who'd already begun charging at her managed to intercept her before she fired a shot. It dove at her, knocking her on her back and trying to hit her with its sword. She kicked the undead off her, only just in time to see Luther's armored boot crash down on top of her face. Then, everything went black.

Luther sadly bent down and gently lifted the unconscious amazon into his arms. The skeletons ignored him as he walked through the battle, carrying the prize back to his master.

As Marn fought her short-lived, ill-fated duel with the enslaved paladin, the others were busy holding off the necromancer's skeletal troops. Vragath was somewhere in the sea of combat, while Barok had gone straight for the flaming piece of hell that had lumbered in with the other troops. Neither Velanna nor Cain could see either of them, though, as the living wall of steel and bone before them obstructed their view quite efficiently. They were like rocks on a beach, trying to stand up against a tide of undead. And they weren't doing too well; the army of skeletons had pushed them back far from the others.

"Back!" Cain ordered to the encroaching skeletons, even though he didn't honestly expect them to listen. "Back, I say!" This time, he enforced his order, holding his staff into the air with both hands. Both his staff and his body took on a blue glow for a moment, before the glow exploded forth into a shockwave of blue energy. Cain had engineered the spell to hurt neither himself nor any other ally nearby; unfortunately, the ice spell seemed to have little effect on the skeletons. They were obviously of a very select variety, the product of very skilled necromancy, to have withstood a spell from the hand of a Horadrim.

"I do not like the look of this," Velanna said uneasily as she conjured an orb of fire into her hands, launching it at a group of skeletons. The unlucky undead that it struck was completely shattered by the impact, but the explosion had a minimal impact on the surrounding skeletons. "That could have slain a dozen goatmen. I think we are fighting a losing battle."

"Ah, excellent," Cain said surprisingly. "It seems that losing battles are what you people specialize in." He held two fingers vertically and closed his eyes, chanting some words quickly. He pointed his staff at a skeleton approaching him and fired a bolt of lightning. It struck and shattered the undead, then ricocheted to another and shattered it, then the bolt bounced to yet another, striking down a total of six of the nightmares before finally dissipating. But for each struck down, there seemed to be two more to take its place.

Velanna decided to take the battle to a more personal level, as Barok and Vragath were doing. She channeled powerful fire magic into her staff and leapt headlong into battle with the skeletons, fighting with all she had, staff and spell, crushing the undead left and right. Unfortunately, no matter how strong she was on her own, it had been a mistake to leave the strength of numbers provided in small portion by Cain. For the necromancer's soldiers, it was divide and conquer.

Cain was surrounded quickly, and though he gave an astonishing display of sorcery to his credit, it was ultimately for naught. He held his hands together, summoning an icy sphere into them, and he fired a spray of mystic ice shards in front of him. He effectively neutralized the threat in front of him with this spell, but before he could proceed with the battle, he was hunched over from a violent pain in his stomach. He looked down, and saw the blade of a sword sticking out of his stomach; a skeleton had driven it through his back and impaled him completely. His legs suddenly gave out as well, as another skeleton lifted its sword high and slashed at the back of his knees…

Velanna found that melee combat was much more difficult against these skeletons then she'd anticipated. They blocked her strikes, or dodged, or countered, with a level of skill that could rival many among the living. She tried to use magic, but she could only concentrate enough for weak spells, which didn't get her far against such powerful undead.

She glanced to her side just in time to see a skeleton lifting its axe with both hands. She raised her staff to block…and her eyes opened wide when she saw the axe chop halfway into the wood of staff, nearly cutting it in half. The axe remained stuck in the staff and thinking quickly Velanna kicked underneath the skeleton from underneath the locked weapons, knocking it away from its axe. She removed the axe from her staff, but the damage was done. She turned again to her opponents to see that the most recent skeletons wielded…what else?…maces. Heavy weapons, perfect for finishing off her damaged staff, then finishing off Velanna herself.

She put up a fierce fight to her name, but it was useless. Her staff couldn't withstand contact with the maces long, and soon Velanna was stuck with two useless halves of a staff. It was shortly after this that another mace struck the side of her head, knocking her unconscious.

As she was falling back, a skeleton caught her from behind. Another grabbed her legs from the front, and 3 or four other skeletons all took hold of the sorceress, lifting her above their heads and taking her with them as all the skeletons fled the battlefield, their task fulfilled.

Barok was already regretting his decision to attack the unholy titan that had marched in with the skeletons and Luther. He had leapt into the air with his sword held high, and brought the weapon down with all his considerable strength. Unfortunately, it was not enough; there was a clinking sound as the sword met with the thick demon's skull that served as the creature's head, and the attack did no more damage than making a slight scratch on the bone. The attack having failed, Barok thought it best to back away and think of something else, but he had no such luck. Several sets of rotted, burning hands shot out between the ribs of the creature as the bodies trapped therein reached out to Barok. One managed to get a good grip on him, and before he sliced it off another two had taken its place. He would have dealt with them, but he was suddenly swatted away by the enormous hand/gauntlet/claw of the thing. He took a short flight through the air, slamming against the wall of hard, dead flesh. The impact would have killed lesser men, but Barok wasn't even knocked out. He was, however, thoroughly dazed as the giant nightmare lumbered after him. Barok struggled to stand, not yet able to see clearly. He felt the heat of the hellish creature on his skin, and he turned to see it towering over him, an arm lifted to finish the barbarian off.

In Barok's dazed eyes, all he could see of what happened next was a bright shape, like a shooting star, barrel into the side of the hellish giant, knocking it to the side a few steps and nearly toppling it. Barok's eyes wee beginning to come back into focus, and he already knew what the shape was by the time it barked back to him.

"I shall hold off the creature! You must run, now, warrior!" Vragath commanded. He was standing ready to fight the giant, his sword drawn and glowing.

"You think I'm going to run?! Never!" Barok shouted back, holding on to his own sword.

"You must! The Necromancer has captured your woman friends, and means to capture you as well! If he has you in chains, what shall you do then?! You must run, and track them down on your own!" Vragath shouted, his demon's voice very displeasing to the ear, especially when shouting. The giant thing had recovered from Vragath's attack, and was charging at them. Vragath leapt at its face, knowing full well that the battle was hopeless, but needing to buy time for Barok to run. Immediately the giant metal claws of the creature were countering Vragath's efforts and doing a very good job of it. "GO! Find the Heart of the World Beast; there are other paths that lead there! You must free your friends, and stop the Necromancer! It all depends on you, barbarian! Now run, DAMN YOU, **RUN!!**"

With some hesitation and some pushing from his barbarian's instincts, Barok finally turned from the showdown between the demon and the thing and ran. The sounds of Vragath losing the battle were drowning into the distance, though the light from their combat was clearly visible in the otherwise-black tunnel. With Luther and the skeletons having returned to the Necromancer, Barok would have continued running until he could run no more, if it hadn't been for a human shape that he saw in the dull light, lying on the floor. He instantly stopped running, knowing that whoever it was, it was one of his friends.

He stooped beside the body, and saw he was right. Lying face up, with a considerable pool of blood underneath his body, Deckard Cain was dying. Though his vision was failing him along with every other bodily system, Cain saw that Barok was kneeling beside him, and he could gather what his expression was.

"Do not look so sad, warrior. My time should have…" Cain interrupted himself with a violent spurt of bloody coughing. He struggled to continue. "My… time… should have come… a long… time ago…. I am ancient… I should not… have thought… I had another…adventure…in me." His breathing was hard and labored; he was not long for the world.

Barok was searching his beltline frantically for a potion to try and heal the wound. Cain raised his hand, gesturing for him to stop. "No… I am too far… gone. Besides… you will be needing… those potions… more than myself."

"Cain… I don't want to leave you here, in this place…" Barok said, his strong heart holding up well.

Cain chuckled, apparently a painful, difficult action. "My friend… this is far from… the worst place… that a Horadrim… has ever been laid… to rest in. It is a matter… I do not worry about… and which you should not." He started coughing again, blood leaving his mouth, and Barok was surprised to see he still alive when the fit of coughing had finished. "My part in this… is over. But you… you have much yet to do. Go… save our friends… save our world… again… and, what I pray… will be the last time. Farewell… Barok… son of Dunrok, my friend. Be strong… as you have always been…"

Then Cain sighed deeply, and did not inhale again. And there, in the dead, cavernous husk of the World Beast, Deckard Cain, the great sage, tutor and friend to the five saviors of the world, passed away from the mortal world, and the long, heroic line of the Order Horadrim and their epic journeys came at last to an end.

Barok took it heavily, but his heart forbid him to weep. He kneeled with his sword and closed his eyes, and quietly chanted his peoples' rite of passing. When the prayer was finished, he opened his eyes and stood.

"Farewell. I am sorry I cannot give you the burial you deserve, friend," he apologized. He could hear Vragath's battle coming to a close far behind him, and he turned the opposite way and resumed running.

"Hmmm…empty-handed, are you?" the Necromancer asked as the giant hellish construct lumbered into the room without Barok. The creature was no longer burning; that was only a combat mechanism. The thing, the Necromancer, his skeletal troops, Luther, and their two female captives were all gathered in a large chamber with a blackish-reddish floor. That floor was a section of the roof of Trag'Oul's unbeating heart. Vragath, it seemed, had been right about the Necromancer's choice of location. There was a large pentagram on the floor, carved into the flesh to create grooves leading to a small hole in the center. On each of the five points of the pentagram was an altar, designed to allow blood to flow off the side into the grooves of the pentagram, and ultimately flow into the center. Velanna was strapped to one such altar, Marn to another. 

Luther was sitting against one of the altars, hugging his knees, his eyes wide open in panic and beads of sweat dripping off his face. The Necromancer noticed him there and laughed heartily.

"Oh, are you sorry for hurting your friends, my little idiot?" the sorcerer mocked. "Do not worry, though. There is no need for you to hunt down the barbarian. He would not retreat entirely from us; no, no, he is not that type at all. We need only wait for him. He shall come of his own accord, just as soon as he finds the way."

The Necromancer's ears perked as he heard a pained groan coming from one of the altars. Looking, he saw it was Velanna, slowly regaining consciousness. She and Marn were effectively shackled to the altars, incapable of moving their arms, torso, or legs very much at all. The Necromancer smiled and walked up to her altar.

"Ah, good morning, my pretty," the Necromancer greeted. As she slowly opened her eyes, she scowled at the monster of a man standing beside her, looking down at her. All she could see of his face from behind his black hood was his sinister grin.

"What do you want with us?! Do you even know who we are?!" Velanna shouted viciously. "We destroyed the Prime Evils themselves, you fool! What chance against us do you think you have?!"

The Necromancer just chuckled more. "Yes, yes, you are one of the mortals that destroyed my master, I know. But as you can see, your paladin friend no longer fights with you, but against you." He gestured toward Luther, still huddled against an altar, looking terrified. "And what of your own necromancer friend, Tol"Rath? My, how worried you must be about him. Its as though he's vanished off the face of the world…"

"What have you done with him!!" Velanna demanded angrily. The Necromancer laughed loudly at this, stepping back from Velanna's altar.

"Ha, you want to know where your friend is, do you? Well then, LOOK NO FURTHER!" He flung back the hood of his robe, exposing his face to the world. It was a young, handsome face very short white hair. To put it more plainly, it was the face of Tol'Rath, the lost necromancer. Velanna had found him, and it was worse than she could have imagined.

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The Necromancer responsible for all the tragedies of recent times has shown his face, and it is the face of Tol'Rath. What could have spawned this horrid transformation? Or is this some manner of illusion? Or was Tol'Rath ever good to begin with? Will Barok be able to stop whatever madness Tol'Rath is planning? And what became of Vragath…or do we dare ask? Will the Light triumph in this battle, or shall our heroes find that their victory over the Evils was truly a hollow one?

Coming in part 7, its Barok vs. Tol'Rath in a battle that could decide the fate of the world. The entirety of the necromancer's dark plan is revealed, and it seems that Trag'Oul isn't the only thing Tol'Rath is out to resurrect. Get ready, for the breathtaking**conclusion** of Diablo II: A Hollow Victory! Brought to you by the Gar'En, coming early spring 2001!

Questions? Comments? Advice? Praise? Either give me a review or, preferably, drop me a line at [foilman1@usa.net][1]. If you have flames, kindly send them to [someonewhogivesadamn@somesite.com][3]

As usual, whatever your thoughts on the story, please give me some kind of feedback and tell me what I can do to improve. Otherwise, I will be forced to destroy you.

And lastly, visit my site, sign my guestbook, or I will be forced to destroy you.

   [1]: mailto:foilman1@usa.net
   [2]: http://www.geocities.com/darkforcepro
   [3]: mailto:someonewhogivesadamn@somesite.com



	7. Conclusion: The Peace of the Grave

I don't own Diablo, Blizzard does

I don't own Diablo, Blizzard does. I don't own the White Worm, Werecat does(and I sorely recommend you track his works down and read them).

Author: The Gar'En

Email: [darkpoot@yahoo.com][1]

Homepage: [www.geocities.com/darkforcepro][2]

And now, the moment you've waited for. Ladies and gentlemen; boys and girls; people of every species, race, and plane of existence, I give you…

Diablo II

A Hollow Victory****

Conclusion 

**Part 7: The Peace of the Grave**

** **

_ _

_"Masters, I have to tell a tale of woe,_

_A tale of folly and of wasted life,_

_Hope against hope, the bitter dregs of strife,_

_Ending, where all things end, in death at last."_

-Williams Morris, 1834-1896

_Marn was kneeling on the ground, trying with difficulty to wrench the plug out of the bottle of healing potion. Mephisto had beaten her badly, lacking even the strength to stand. Barok and Luther were out cold, the first to fall, having received the brunt of the Lord of Hatred's assault; Marn had been part of that initial charge as well, and was only still conscious due to her superior dexterity. Velanna was barely able to stand as well, and Tol'Rath was face-down on the ground, his minions shattered around him. Mephisto, meanwhile, was busy gloating over his defeated foes._

_"Fools! Did ye truly think ye stood a chance against me? I am Mephisto,Lord of Hatred, eldest of the Three! Even at such a small fraction of my strength as I am at now, no mortal could stand and live against me."_

_"I'm sure getting tired of hearing your voice, ugly," Marn said, though unable to enforce the taunt. Mephisto just chuckled._

_"An insolent wench to the very end, I see. I shall save thee to be the last to die, I think, that ye may die alone. As for the first…" He turned around, to the unconscious body of Tol'Rath lying on the ground. "Ah, what have we here? Why, it is a follower of Rathma, that renegade priest of mine from all those years ago! I taught that ungrateful mortal how to raise the dead, and what did he do? He told the Horadrim, and they used the knowledge to defeat me in their final assault! THEN he started his OWN order! Yes, yes, I DO believe you shall be the first to feel the Hells, necromancer!" Mephisto declared as he raised his arms to deal the killing blow._

_"NOO!" Velanna cried out, using her last strength to fire a bolt of ice at the demon lord. It hit him square in the back, knocking him forward and diverting his attention from his would-be prey. He turned his head to look at Velanna, not turning his body from Tol'Rath._

_"Ah, so ye care for this one, do ye, witch? Well then, I shall take great pleasure in…" but Mephisto never got a chance to finish that sentence. While Mephisto's head was turned, the Necromancer leapt up from the ground with a dagger in hand. Tol'Rath, it seems, was not unconscious at all, but had just been playing possum long enough for just such an opportunity to present itself. His hand came down like a scorpion's tale, and drove the blade deep into Mephisto's black, unholy heart. There was a gush of foul black blood as Mephisto's life was penetrated._

_Mephisto's face faulted, as if he were choking on something, and slowly he turned his shaking head to Tol'Rath. The Lord of Hatred smiled at the young man, who was now spattered with Mephisto's blood. The liquid burned Tol'Rath's skin badly, poisoning him on more levels than just the physical._

_"Heh heh….you poor fool…." Mephisto said with a dying voice, stuffed with gloating even as it spoke its last words. "Thou… thou shall be the one to carry on." The words were so quiet, Mephisto didn't think anyone but Tol'Rath heard them. He had forgotten, however, to take Marn's trained hearing into account. She heard, but she didn't especially care. It didn't mean anything to her._

_Apparently, it didn't mean anything to Tol'Rath either. "What do you mean?" he demanded, his hands still on the hilt of his dagger. The poisonous blood caused him more pain than his mind could handle, but still he held fast._

_Mephisto just chuckled, a sound that soon broke into whole-hearted laughter as the Lord of Hatred perished(for the moment) on the dagger of Tol'Rath. With Mephisto momentarily defeated, the demonic body reverted into the corpse of the unlucky Que-Hagen Sankekur, a large shard of blue crystal impaled through his hand. Neither Marn nor Velanna paid any attention to the transformation, though; their attention was taken by Tol'Rath, who suddenly passed out from the poison…_

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Marn shook her head, waking up from the flashback of their fight with Mephisto. After that fight, Tol'Rath's survival had been in doubt for some time. He remained in a coma for their entire campaign through Hell, being left at the Kurast docks for Ormus to tend. He slept as though dead, with the pained contortions of his face and occasional screaming as the only indication that he was still alive at all. He eventually regained consciousness, shortly after the defeat of Diablo, and was awake to meet a smothering hug from Velanna when the other four heroes returned with Cain to the Docks. During their campaign against Baal, though, Tol'Rath was changed. He never seemed to sleep, and when he did it was only to be awakened violently by nightmares. Ormus had told them that the poison would probably never be fully purged from his system, that it would haunt him for the rest of his life, but no one knew to what extent the venomous blood would take the necromancer. No one but Mephisto…

Marn was quick to realize that she was chained down, and quite effectively. She looked around, taking in the shadow of a man that had been Luther, the skeletons and the hellish construct, the pentagram and altars, and of course, she saw Velanna, crying her poor, broken heart out, as the Necromancer stood smiling, unhooded, over her. Marn filled with rage, such rage that she almost shed searing tears of anger, as she quickly recognized that face…

"Oh, I should of known it," she hissed. Tol'Rath turned to her, still smiling smugly.

"Ah, and you too have returned to the world of the living," Tol'Rath greeted her as he walked up to her altar. "Though I am sorry to say you shan't be staying long."

"I've never liked you, man," Marn said, resuming her reference of males as simply 'man'."But I must say, this is the first time that the word HATE comes to mind…"

"Oh, hush, you do not hate me," Tol'Rath said as he sat on the altar next to her. "Now, if I were to tell you that it was my minions and I that destroyed your homes, then…" Marn screamed as she violently, vainly fought with her chains, yearning to feel his blood on her hands. "Ah yes, NOW you hate me." He got up from the altar, walking away.

"WHY!!" Marn screamed with fury that made her head hurt. "TELL ME WHY, YOU BLACK-HEARTED BASTARD!!!"

Tol'Rath just raised his hand up slightly, not even facing Marn, and instantly her body became an unthinking explosion of pain. Her eyes opened wide, her breath became short and shallow, and her body bucked as though struck by seizure.

"I have grown stronger, Marn, far stronger than you know. You would profit to watch your tongue," Tol'Rath said calmly as he turned back to her. His smile was gone, replaced with a look of seriousness. "Why, you ask? I think you know why. Because if all of our party had their homeland destroyed, you would try and save me from a similar fate. Alas, the City of Rathma was no match for me either, but still, you arrived, and that is what counts. More to the core of the matter, I seem to recall you were conscious when I slew Mephisto. You heard what he said, I trust."

He let off the spell of pain, and Marn could think clearly again. And she found the pieces fit perfectly, forming a terrible picture. "He said…you would carry on," Marn said quietly, more to herself than anything.

"Very good. And I KNOW you saw how I was showered with his blood," Tol'Rath continued. "In that moment, that dark christening, my mind finally, slowly began to chip through the wall that had kept me from my destiny. I was blind once; Mephisto made me see."

Marn could have been expected to breathe a spout of fire at any moment from the anger and hate building in her. "You're insane." She said through clenched teeth.

"I am only doing what I…what EVERY necromancer…was born to do, whether they acknowledged it or not. Surely you know the name of Rathma, the founder of our order? It is true what Mephisto said about him; Rathma, named after a necromancer from even more distant legend, was a priest of Mephisto, one of the strongest there had ever been, and Mephisto had great plans for him. But Rathma, damn him for a fool, turned on his master, and began to make plans against him. On the very night of the Horadrim's final assault on the Fortress of Bone, Rathma slipped into their camp, shrouded in a white cloak, and he disclosed to the Order knowledge that, among mortals, only the priests of Mephisto could have known: the knowledge of raising the dead. They used the knowledge to defeat Mephisto and entomb him in one of those crystalline prisons, the Soulstones. Rathma escaped and formed the order of my ancestors. But Rathma's heart was soft and weak, the reason he had betrayed Mephisto in the first, and so he led his followers on another path, a path apart from that which the Lord of Hatred himself had blazed. They strayed from the TRUE path of a necromancer, the path that Mephisto's blood has set me back on. My power now is greater than any mortal Death mage that has lived since before the Horadrim. And in return, I shall repay Mephisto and his brothers with renewed life…"

"The Prime Evils? But they can never reform! Its impossible! TheSoulstones…"

"The Soulstones are here," Tol'Rath interrupted her, taking his hand out of a pocket in his robe. He held his clenched fist out to Marn, and when he opened it she saw three tiny shards of crystal on his palm, one blue, one red, one yellow. "A tad incomplete, I'm afraid, but far from destroyed. They still bear a small part of the Essence of the Evils, a very small part. These pieces are fractions of fractions, pieces of shards of the already-broken Stones. But they will still serve their purpose.

"When the Evils created Trag'Oul, you see, they knew that he could crush them all if he decided to rebel. To remedy the problem, they created his mind out of parts of their own essences, so that Trag'Oul was simply an extension of their own being, no more capable of rebellion the Hells than a hand is against its body. The divisions of the souls of the Evils are still contained in the World Beast, and when combined with the shards I have here, I will be able to resurrect the Brothers. I need only revive Trag'Oul, and the essences of the Evils that he contains will be reawakened once more."

Rather than even attempt to digest it all, Marn came up with a simpler retort. "Ha, and you think you're strong enough to revive something THIS big? You really ARE insane."

"That's enough out of you." He waved his hand once at Marn, and every joint in her body, including her jaw, locked up and refused to move. She was getting rather sick of his use of Curses to shut her up. "Though you are quite right; even with my newfound power, I could never hope to revive the great World Beast on my own. Which is why I led you here; I need your help. Now, before you try to tell me that you will never help a madman like me…that was what you were going to say, was it not?…I will tell you that the help I require is no more than a simple donation of blood, from you and the rest of your companions, and even myself. He requires a small amount, but from each of us. As no doubt you know, we are among the strongest stock of mortals in the world. Perhaps we five crusaders are indeed the most powerful sons of man in life today. We are going to perform a slight, shall we say, transfusion for Trag'Oul, giving him a little of our own strong blood just to set the spark of life and strength to the proverbial sawdust. Then, the World Beast shall walk again, I shall perform the extraction of the Evils, and my masters will live once more. Of course, they shall need proper host bodies…I am still deciding which of you shall have the honor." Tol'Rath yawned. "Dear, I suppose I've gone and talked your ear off, haven't I?" His response was just a scowl from the paralyzed Amazon and the continuing, painful sobs of Velanna. There is only so much pain and loss that a young woman can bear, and Velanna had crossed well over that line. She had nothing, nothing at all but her tears. "Ah, but do not fret, ladies. As soon as Barok arrives, then we can get started…"

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Barok ran. With nothing to light his path but a small torch and nothing at all to show him which way to go, he ran. In two days time, his village was in ruins, one of his friends was enslaved to a madman, one was murdered, two others were captured, and one was missing. While he didn't know the Necromancer was the one responsible for the burning of his village yet, he was still going to rip that man's bowels from his gut, and show them to him before he died. The Necromancer would pay for all the pain Barok had endured, all of it.

But first, Barok would have to reach the Heart as Vragath had instructed, and that was some task for a creature the size of a continent. He could be running in the wrong direction entirely, in which case he would be running for the rest of his life. And even if we was running the vague direction of the Heart, how was he to know it when he saw it? There had to be thousands, tens of thousands of chambers like the one Vragath had told of in Trag'Oul's husk.

He continued thinking of all the things that were building the odds against his ever finding the Heart of the World Beast, right up until the moment that his feet fell out from below him as the floor directly underfoot opened up from his weight. His torch fell to the ground and blew out as he tripped, quite by accident, into something like a minor blood vessel. The opening of the vessel had been like a pit trap, and he slid down the small, dark, foul-smelling tube for quite some time, trying vainly to slow down his fall.

As suddenly as he entered the tube, he found himself leaving it, issuing out the other end at great speed…and entering a free-fall into a high-ceilinged chamber with a black floor. As Barok sped to the ground below, he saw a pentagram etched into the tissue composing the floor, though he was going too fast to recognize any of the faces there.

Life is composed of coincidences, one after the other, some good and some bad. As fate would have it, Barok had slid right into the chamber above the Heart where the Necromancer had set up his base. Whether this was a good or a bad coincidence, it is difficult to say.

"OOF!" Barok grunted as he hit the floor. It had been something of a drop, and again, it was only due to his incredible hardiness that he survived without even a broken bone. The Necromancer and Marn both turned surprised glances to the barbarian's none-too-graceful entrance. If the conditions had been any different, Marn would have said something witty about the clumsy fall, but she only had one thing to say to him now:

"Kill him, Barok!" she shouted. Barok, unfortunately, had had no time to get his bearings. He noticed his surroundings; the altars, the pentagram, the torch-lit walls, that hellish giant that he'd fought with. He saw Luther, not having moved an inch from his frightened position against one of the altars; he saw Velanna, long canals of drying tears dripping down her face as she lay silent in her chains; he saw Marn, chained to her altar and visibly fit to explode from her hatred and rage. And most surprising to him of all, he noticed...

"Tol'Rath? What…are you doing?" Barok asked. He was glad to see his friend alive…but there was definitely something wrong.

Tol'Rath sighed and rolled his eyes. "My apologies, but I'm not explaining THAT again. I am certain your Amazon friend here will be glad to tell you, though." Marn didn't even realizing that he was anticipating her reaction as she shouted at her warrior friend.

"Barok! Listen to me, he's the one we're after! He's the one who burned our homes, the one who lured us here! He's the one who's trying to revive Trag'Oul! You have to KILL him!" Marn shouted. Barok just stared with an open jaw and open eyes at Tol'Rath, who stood there without a drop of denial on his face. Barok had no immediate reaction to Marn's words; she had lit the metaphorical fuse. The detonation followed moments later.

Barok growled at the necromancer. "Its true, isn't it?" he asked in a menacing voice as he drew his sword from a sheath on his back. Tol'Rath wasn't intimidated in the least.

"Yes, its true," Tol'Rath casually said as he reached into the folds of his black robe and drew out a long, formidable dagger. "Now I know how far it will get me to just ask you to get on your altar and cooperate, so do tell me, which of us would you like to be subdued by? Would you like your good friend Luther to do the honors?" Luther was trembling, but responding to an unspoken command, he stood and drew his sword. If an onlooker had only seen him below the neck, he would have thought the paladin to be the strongest knight there ever was. If he had seen only the face, he would have thought Luther to be a crippled old beggar who had buried too many loved ones. "Oh, wait, perhaps you like to have another fight with my newest creation…" the giant, hellish thing walked up, its massive footsteps leaving echoes. Tol'Rath looked up to him, to behold his creation. "I believe you two have already met, but allow me to introduce him to you formally. This is what I call, for lack of a better name or any particular spark of creativity, my Hell Golem. He is just one example of the power that Mephisto has restored to me. He is a combination of all the traditional varieties of Golem: stone, flesh, steel, and flame. So, would you like to have another chance at him, after he so ruthlessly…" Tol'Rath looked back at Barok and stopped midsentence, for he saw the fire in Barok's eyes and knew its meaning well. "No…no, you would much prefer to do battle with me personally, am I right? As much as I could advise against that, as much as I could tell you that you are no match at all for me, far-be-it from me to deny a request from an old friend."

"Don't DARE call me 'friend'! GAAHH!!" With a howl that seemed to come from the very Beyond, Barok charged at the corrupt necromancer. Never was there a stampede of beasts so fearful as Barok in that moment. But the Necromancer was a master of fear, not a victim of it; he stood his ground. He closed his eyes and extended one open palm at Barok, raising two fingers on his other hand and lifting it close to his face.

Barok suddenly felt his world go upside-down and inside-out. His mind, senses, and body were all thrown out of their sync with each other. He couldn't even balance on his feet well enough to stand, let alone run, and he quickly collapsed face-first in front of Tol'Rath.

"Satisfied?" Tol'Rath asked as he opened his eyes, lowered his hands, and walked up to Barok, who was squirming on the floor in a vain attempt to get up. When he eventually became aware that Tol'Rath was standing over him, he clutched his sword and swung for all he could, but he was too disoriented. The necromancer made no attempt to dodge or block, or even flinch; the attack missed of its own accord, just as he had expected.

"Oh, not satisfied, then. Alright, we might as well give the world a few more minutes of life." Tol'Rath backed away from Barok, still holding his dagger. "Very well. I shall fight you WITHOUT curses. You can stand, now."

And suddenly it was all clear again. The violent disorientation fled his body like a shadow before the sun, and all the functions of his body and mind were synchronized again. He was quick to return to his feet, ready to fight, but as he stared down his former friend, he knew that the fight was useless. If he wanted to, Tol'Rath could probably command his heart to suddenly stop beating, or order his own hand to drive his sword through his skull. Whatever he was capable of, Barok knew he would have to try something to improve the odds.

"Barok, here!" Marn called to him. The two warriors thought on very similar levels, and they could often tell roughly what the other was thinking. A traditional rapport between two very close friends. Marn had guessed at Barok's dilemma and had, in a way, offered herself as assistance. Barok knew what she meant, and in a flash he turned from Tol'Rath and bolted for Marn's altar. As he approached, he lifted his sword to sever the shackles on her hands. Concentrating and carefully aiming the blade, he brought it down with more than enough force to break the chains.

Unfortunately, before it could do so, a sturdy long sword came out of nowhere and intercepted the strike. Barok's eyes followed up the blade, up the hilt, and saw that the wielder was Luther, his expression no better than before.

"Come now, that would be cheating," Tol'Rath scolded as Luther swung his sword up, sliding Barok's up and away and pushing the barbarian away from Marn. Luther stepped in between the two warriors, making himself a barricade. "Now, are you going to fight me, or should I just strike you blind and finish this while we're young?

"Luther! Its me, Barok, your friend!" Barok shouted. "Please, you have to listen to me! Fight his influence! You're your own man, damn it!"

"Barok…" Luther sobbed with tears rolling freely down his tortured face. "Please…I beg of thee, Barok……" Barok thought he might have gotten through to him, until Luther finished his sentence: 

"Please …do not make me kill thee…"

"NOW do you see, Barok? He belongs to me now," Tol'Rath said, in a 'you should have known' tone. "Any practicing necromancer can make the fallen do his bidding. Only those who follow the true path are strong enough to extend their influence over the living as well. Luther here put up a strong fight to his credit, but a lot of torture and a little patience go a long way."

Barok slowly turned back to Tol'Rath, his anger boiling, and the shadow of defeat looming over his heart. Tol'Rath, a good friend of Barok's, had betrayed them all. Luther, the single strongest man he'd ever known, was held by a leash to this monster. Deckard Cain, his mentor and friend, was dead and unburied. His village and kin were both gone from the world. Velanna, another good friend, had her heart and soul shattered from the strain, and had at last surrendered to despair. He was outnumbered by monstrosities of every kind. Tol'Rath could kill him with a gesture. Vragath had given himself up to give Barok a chance to stop the necromancer, and he had failed. The Evils, the Hells, everything they had given up so much to destroy was about to return. Everything they had worked for was about to be undone. The world was about to end. And Marn…

"Come on, Barok, beat him back to hell!" Marn shouted.

Barok turned his head to her, looking at her face from behind Luther. There was great anger in her eyes, not even a fool could miss it. But there was more than anger, there was also reason, there was compassion, there was friendship, love, light, warmth, all they had fought for. Her body was chained down, but still she fought with Barok in spirit. To look into those eyes, for Barok; it was an island of sanity in a sea of madness, a ray of light in a world of darkness. It showed him there was still hope, that they hadn't lost all they had fought for, that they weren't beaten yet. It saved him from either breaking down like Velanna or entering a hopeless, mindless state of rage, both of which would have resulted in quick defeat from the necromancer. Marn had saved him from despair, simply by being strong, by refusing to despair, by standing with him in their darkest hour. And so, in that same hour, there was yet a ray of hope shining through.

"Give him one for me!" Marn demanded.

"If there's enough of him left after I've gotten in all of mine, sure," Barok said with a sneer…yes, a sneer! Despair was truly vanquished… as he held his sword at ready.

"You always could talk a good fight," Tol'Rath said with a tone that boldly stated 'I am not impressed'. "But you are out of your league."

"We'll see about that," Barok said.

"Yes," Tol'Rath said. "We certainly shall." He pocketed his dagger, and again he closed his eyes, linking his hands in a strange gesture and chanting words of an unknown tongue. Several of the skeletons in the room exploded violently, their bones hovering quickly around in the air like a cloud of dust. The bones flew to Tol'Rath, orbiting around his robed body at a lazy speed. Barok expected something else to happen, but the necromancer just opened his eyes and drew his dagger. "Care to take the first swing? I would just take it myself, but I fear that might end our little duel before it started."

"Now who's talking a good fight?" Barok countered. "Nonetheless, don't mind if I take you up on that!" With that, he leapt at Tol'Rath like a cat at its prey, and the duel began.

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Vragath opened his eyes, to find himself surrounded by blinding light, light that appealed to his heart and revolted his body. He knew this place. And somewhere in his heart, there was suddenly an emotion that was generally a stranger to the demon: fear.

He heard a variety of voices speaking from somewhere in the sea of light. 

"Look at that wretched demon. Our armor suffers to be worn by such a foul creature."

"We gave him a simple task, defending a disused corpse. And still he fails us!"

"The Evils will live again because of his incompetence!"

"All of the innocents of Sanctuary, lost…"

"Well, brothers, it is my opinion that we should not need to behold this creature anymore. It is my opinion, that we reconsider his fate."

"I second that. He has betrayed the High Heavens with his failure!"

"That devil has failed us once, and for the last time!"

"Here here!"

There was a loud ring of acknowledgement to this, with Vragath being forced to listen to each with the peak of clarity. Finally, there was silence for a moment, broken soon by a loud, prominent voice speaking alone.

"Very well…we are decided. Vragath, son of the hells, your fate has been chosen. You have failed your charge, and you have thus failed the High Heavens and all they stand for. You have betrayed us and the trust we placed in you. This puts in question your loyalty to the Heavens, and your former allegiance to the Dark. We of the Divine Council of these Heavens see no choice but strip you of all affiliation with the Light. Your enlistment in the service of Heaven is hereby revoked, your arms and armor are to be surrendered, and you are to be promptly returned to your home, in the pits that spawned you!" Vragath was breathing heavily in fear. This was every nightmare he'd ever had since leaving the Dark, made real. "Angels of this council, how feel you about this sentence?"

There was a brilliant cheer of approval, hitting into Vragath's heart like daggers. "NO!! Please, please, I beg of you! Give me another chance! I do not want to return to Hell! Please! I shall not fail you again!"

"You are certainly correct on that. Guards, relieve this creature of his armor. It has been soiled by him long enough."

As Vragath felt a pair of hands clutch his face and rip the mask from it, he screamed in terror, terror that he had never known, terror of returning to the Dark. Tears of blood ran from his eyes, and he collapsed to his knees, his face buried in his hands.

"Please! PLEASE! Do not!! I beg of…" but as Vragath opened his eyes to look up at his accusers, he found that he was alone. He was in a dark, foul-smelling cavern; for a moment he feared that he had been returned to Hell, but soon it occurred to him that reality was slightly less harsh. He was still in the World Beast, kneeling just below the large hole in the wall that the Hell Golem had made with him. The Council had just been an illusion, a hallucination, a terrifying dream while he was unconscious. But even now that he was awake, he told himself that their words were true. He had failed his charge. He had failed the Heavens, and if they saw it fit to return him to Hell, it would only be justice.

It quickly occurred to him that, even though his trial had been a delusion, his mask was gone. He looked down, and saw a tattered piece of once-beautiful metal lying before him. The last part of the nightmare had been very much real, but the hands that ripped off his mask were his very own, in a fit of madness.

Still, he was not saddened by the loss. –No. I do not deserve it,- he thought to himself when he considered putting it back on. "I do not deserve your mercy!!" he cried out loud, his hideous voice echoing throughout the World Beast, as he continued to rip and tear at his own armor. His helmet fell completely off his head, revealing a very hard, red scalp. He tore off both of his gauntlets, the remaining edges digging into his skin. He probably would have ripped off the rest of the angelic armor, perhaps even his own heart, if it hadn't been for a small light that shone in the darkness. He looked up, and saw his sword, the angelic blade, lying on the cold ground. Its dull, soothing glow helped to calm Vragath some small bit, but more importantly, it reminded him of something.

The demon growled. "It is not over yet."

He grabbed the sword in his thick red fingers, and ran off violently into the dark passages…

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"Well, warrior, I am not yet BORED, per say, but do you really want to go on with this?" Tol'Rath asked, a bit of a cocky attitude to his voice. Though he had every right to be confident; the fight was going miserably for Barok. The Necromancer had stayed true to his word, and had not used a single curse of any kind, but he was still strong in many other ways. Every scratch from the poisoned dagger caused incredible pain, and impaired Barok tremendously. The field of bone around Tol'Rath also intercepted any attacks Barok could try, and even produced counterattacks of its own. 

Still, even in the face of impossible odds, Barok still had the mettle to spit forcefully at the necromancer. A shard of bone flew in from the field and intercepted it while Tol'Rath sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Oh, alright. Come on, then," Tol'Rath taunted. Barok accepted the offer graciously, screaming his lungs out and lunging at the necromancer for another charge, just as ill-fated as the last few. As he took a broad, horizontal slash at Tol'Rath, the Necromancer ducked for a swiping kick to Barok's legs. A large piece of bone flew in the way of Barok's sword, deflecting the strike enough to miss Tol'Rath. At the same time, another, sharper bone flew into Barok's hand, knocking the sword free. Tol'Rath's feet , meanwhile, swept Barok's out from under him. As the dazed barbarian was on his way to fall face first to the ground, the entire cluster of bones flying around Tol'Rath flew together at Barok in a macabre uppercut, knocking the barbarian backwards and causing him to fell on his back rather than his face. All this happened much quicker than it sounds like; Barok's sword hit the ground shortly after Barok himself did.

"It was entertaining, Barok, but I'm afraid I really must be getting on with things." A troop of skeletons marched up to Barok, given an unspoken command from their master. "The skeletons will escort you to your altar. Please, make this easy and do not…" Barok was already punching through the skeletons, shattering them, when Tol'Rath finished his sentence. "…resist. Oh, Barok, why do you refuse to cooperate?"

"Shut up! Don't listen to him!" Marn shouted. Tol'Rath just gestured at the chained Amazon; Luther, with no small reluctance, turned to her and dealt a silencing punch to her face with his armored fist.

Barok saws this, hate burning in his eyes. "Bastard! This is between you and me!" Barok shouted.

"Not even. This is over," Tol'Rath said with annoyed confidence. He made a few small gestures with his hands, and three tiny points of dull light appeared around him. The lights grew and grew, until they were the size of men, and even roughly in their shape. The necromancer had summoned up three hideous apparitions, looking like skeletons with some tissues still intact, like their long, straggly hair and some occasional skin. They were clothed in tattered robes and seemed to have no legs, floating in the air of their own power. None of it was physically there, though; they were dim and translucent. Bone spirits. Necromancers could always use them for instantaneous attacks, but they had been trying for centuries in vain to learn how to control them for more than a few moments. Tol'Rath, it seemed, had solved the mystery.

The Necromancer pointed at Barok, and the spirits flew at him, screeching like banshees. Barok was unarmed, his sword still lying many yards away, though he could tell it wouldn't be of any use against them, anyway. He barely jumped to the side as one of the wraiths dived at him; it still nicked hand, which was immediately taken over by a cold numbness. Barok knew he had no chance but one, however faint, and that lied with the defeat of Tol'Rath. Burning all of his last, desperate strength, he again charged forward at the necromancer, his fists extended, with speed and force enough to knock a dragon unconscious. Tol'Rath made a quick gesture, causing another skeleton standing on the sidelines to fall apart, its bones flying forward and creating a miniature wall, catching the barbarian's foot and tripping him, sending him flying forward with momentum. Tol'Rath lightly stepped to the side as Barok whizzed by. He hit the ground hard, tumbling over and over, until finally reaching a heavy stop against an altar. His body was a symphony of pain, until one of the bone spirits caught up with him and flew right through his chest. Then he was out cold. 

Tol'Rath exhaled, dusting off his hands on his robe. The bone spirits faded away into nothing, their task fulfilled. Several skeletons walked up and hoisted Barok up onto the same altar he had crashed into, chaining him down tight. They then turned to Tol'Rath, awaiting new orders.

"Ah, that took longer than it had to. If he had kept going, I would have risked running a sweat," Tol'Rath said as the bones orbiting around him disintegrated. He walked to the center of the pentagram, near the hole carved into the center. The hole was deep, leading down into the very center of Trag'Oul's heart. The room was designed specifically for the resurrection of the World Beast; strong, living blood would flow into the middle of the pentagram and enter Trag'Oul's heart, instilling a small amount of energy into the rest of his blood supply. The Heart Chamber itself was instilled with powerful necromantic magic, and once Trag'Oul's blood had the spark of life again, the Heart would work its magic and raise the great dragon. Tol'Rath unknowingly stood now in the spot where Mephisto had planned he would be, the spot where the dark blood had guided him to.

The sudden silence following the battle brought a sound to Tol'Rath's ears that he had been ignoring for a while: the sound of Velanna's tears. She had been weeping nearly the entire time, her soul was in such a state of emotional shock, bordering closely on the full nervous breakdown. Tol'Rath strolled up to her, the sorceress hardly aware of his presence behind her closed eyes. He looked down at her, thinking.

"You know, in all my travels with you, this is the first time I've seen you cry. You were always stronger than that. Is this really SO bad? You're soon going to be a part of something greater than most mortals could ever hope to be."

"No…" Velanna said weakly, as she opened her eyes, bloodshot from weeping. "Tol'Rath, please…don't do this. You don't know what you're doing…you're not in control…"

Tol'Rath wasn't paying her much heed up to that point, but the next thing she said struck him right to the core.

"Please…Tol'Rath……I…I love you…"

He didn't know why, but her words unsettled him terribly. His face was quickly with sweat and confusion, mixed with fear and hate. It was a baffling expression, and for a moment his breathing seemed to come short and erratic. In a lightning-fast, desperate stroke, he lifted his hand and struck Velanna across the face hard.

"SILENCE!" he screamed like a man trying to force his will on something he has no control over. Velanna just kept crying. She had obviously struck a chord with him; it was feasible that she could bring him back from his madness. But she didn't care anymore. She didn't have the fight left in her. Tol'Rath, in need of something else to occupy his attention, turned to his skeletons. "Begin the ceremony, NOW!"

The skeletons quickly obeyed, igniting large torches and carrying them into specific places on the pentagram. Tol'Rath drew his dagger again and made his way to the center of the pentagram. He held the dagger vertically in both hands at arms length from himself, and closed his eyes as he began to chant in the demonic native tongue of the Hells, with the words that Mephisto's blood had placed on his tongue. They were words that no mortal tongue had spoken in centuries, words that no righteous man had ever before uttered. The chant was a long one, for the magic was strong. The words, roughly translated into mortal language, are as follows:

_"O Fell Worm of Death,_

_Mother to the Evils and Bride of Oblivion,_

_Heed my call, and surrender thy will to me._

_I command thee, give up thy hold of this place,_

_Let the dead be such as the living._

_That which was twice ash and dust, be flesh again._

_O White Worm, enemy of life, free this creature from thy grasp._

_Flow, blood. Beat, heart._

_Rise again."_

He signaled to the skeletons standing by the altars, all armed with sacrificial knives. On the signal, they raised these knives to the four chained warriors. Tol'Rath rolled up his robe sleeve and placed his dagger against the vein, meaning to slash down his arm. The plan was to take a relatively small amount(as opposed to a lethally-large amount) of blood from each, so that each would live to see what would come to pass.

With one stroke of his dagger, the skeletons would receive their signal, and it would be over; the blood of the five would be spilled, and all hope would be withered beyond resurrection. Luckily, the pivotal stroke was averted, as a ghastly, demonic war-cry echoed loudly through the chamber. Tol'Rath moved his dagger away from his arm, the skeletons dropping their arms to their sides in suit. The necromancer was looking frantically throughout the chamber for the source of the scream; the source revealed itself as part of the living wall of the chamber exploded forth, strewing black blood and ancient bits of flesh in many directions, as Vragath barreled in with his sword in hand. He was breathing deeply through his pin-like teeth, like a hound with its prey in chase. The helmet, mask, cape, and most of the arms were ripped none-too-cleanly from the suit of armor. The sword in his hand burned with white flames, and his eyes with yellow. His huge, unnaturally thick biceps were clearly visible without the armor to cover them. He had all the dark, overwhelming strength of a child of the Hells, decked in grand angelic armor and wielding one of the finest weapons of Creation, an angelic runeblade. He had all the determination of a man with everything on the line, and in every measure he had the power to carry through.

As Vragath the Forgiven stood there in that hour, he was truly a fearsome sight to behold.

"Damn you, why must you STILL live?" Tol'Rath asked in pure aggravation. He turned to the Hell Golem. "Golem, this poor demon is having an identity crisis. Please, remedy it. Send the little lost devil back where he belongs. Right back in Hell."

"If I return to the Burning Realm this day, sorcerer, rest assured I shall not go alone!" Vragath howled as he held his sword in both hands, some smoke coming out of his mouth as he breathed in and out heavily. Tol'Rath rolled his eyes, and the Hell Golem lumbered forward.

Vragath growled, the kind of vicious noise that could only be emulated by a creature born of Hell. The sound made even Tol'Rath shudder, no small feat, but the corrupt necromancer remained confident in the success of his creation. The Golem stomped toward the demon, but Vragath, his blood still burning with zeal and determination, was the first to attack. With another soul-shaking howl, he leapt into the air, his sword a bonfire of white flame as he held it high in both of his brutish hands. Before the golem could raise its arms in defense, Vragath landed on his face, bringing his blade down with all his unholy might. There was an explosion of sparks as the holy sword drove through the thick, demonic bone of the golem's skull, striking it dead center and driving deep down. The bodies encased in the rib cage convulsed suddenly, wailing loudly in pain in place of their usual moans. The creature stumbled back two steps, the flames on its body dying down. The Golem had been hurt and hurt badly, and its steel claws began flailing wildly through the air to save itself, or, if salvation had lost its chance, to avenge itself.

Vragath planted his feet firmly on the Golem's collarbone, his enormous muscles pulsing as he pushed his blade down further through the Golem's head. Its claws struck him again and again, cleaving through his armor and flesh as easily as wheat before the scythe, but still Vragath held fast. The monster's flames were extinguished entirely, considerably darkening the chamber, and the bodies in the torso of the creature became still. The golem used its last energy to lift up its claw one last time, and drive it at Vragath. It hit home, delivering a cruel blow and dislodging both demon and sword, and sending them flying through the air. The Golem's celebration was bitter, though; before Vragath or his sword had even struck the ground, the titan's last energies expired. Its eyes went cold and dark, and its hands fell limp to its side. But worst of all, it lost its balance.

Tol'Rath had to act quickly. He waved both hands in a full circle around the room, causing all of his remaining skeletons to collapse into inanimate bones. Making a quick gesture at the teetering Hell Golem, the bones flew quickly into place, forming a tall, thick wall of bone in the direction he was teetering. It was the most the necromancer could do in the seconds before the Golem collapsed in all its considerable mass, but it proved enough to divert the lifeless monster from crushing Barok in its fall. It finally hit ground with a powerful thud, lying with outstretched arms between Barok and Marn.

Tol'Rath wiped some sweat from his brow; he had nearly lost one of his sacrifices to that foolish…suddenly remembering Vragath, Tol'Rath turned around quickly. Vragath was standing on the other side of the pentagram, breathing heavily. His armor was in terrible condition, covered with gaping holes, dents, and the same black blood that was dripping from Vragath to the floor. He was dying.

"You shall not win this day, sorcerer. The World Beast has drawn its last breath on this world, as have the Evils," Vragath snarled.

"You had best be careful, little demon, or you may find yourself with that same condition," Tol'Rath threatened back, holding his dagger towards Vragath. The demon knew he could not take on the necromancer, especially in his last few moments of life. He didn't even have his sword, which had landed somewhere else when the Hell Golem batted his away. A quick glance revealed it was lying next to Luther's altar; while Vragath judged that he could probably dash for the weapon, he took a risky judgment and decided it was better suited where it was. He turned back to Tol'Rath, and began to slowly walk forward.

"I will die today, sorcerer. There is no escaping it," Vragath said, the realization of death calming his nerves slightly. "I have done what I might. You can strike me down here and now, but I promise you the Dark shall not prevail." He was now standing hardly three feet from the necromancer, within striking distance for what little that was worth to the broken demon.

Tol'Rath smirked, and raised his dagger. "Well, devil, you are certainly right about one thing."

Vragath made no attempt to defend as the necromancer's blade drove through his heart. He fell lifeless to the ground, his black demon's blood flowing out freely. He had certainly done his part for the Light; unfortunately, as he died, his blood flowed right into the center of the pentagram. As the liquid dripped into the hole, the grooves shaping the pentagram took on a dull glow, becoming increasingly brighter with every drop.

"Hmmm, an interesting turn of events. Thank you, fool, you have just contributed more than enough to the cause," Tol'Rath chuckled as he kicked Vragath's corpse aside. The blood was still not enough, but it was close. It wouldn't take much more than what Vragath had spilled to revive Trag'Oul, and Tol'Rath knew it. He dug his hand into a fold of his robe, fishing out the three Soulstone shards. The time had come to decide on hosts…

It seemed that hope was dead. The four were in chains, Vragath and Cain were dead, and with the spill of a small amount of blood, the Prime Evils would live again and the failure of the five crusaders would be complete. And if Vragath had only taken his sword with him to fight Tol'Rath, hope would indeed have been vanquished at last. But even with all that had happened, it was still not over quite yet.

From the very moment that Vragath's angelic sword had landed near him, Luther had been enthralled with the holy blade. His face was not the exhibition of fear and torment it had been, but a spectacle of awe. The blade still burnt with white, holy flames, a sign of its heavenly make. There was an inscription on the blade, very small but shining brightly and clear as day, which Luther's wide eyes followed hungrily.

_"May this blade fell no innocent creature…"_

__Somewhere deep beneath the webs of slavery that Tol'Rath had woven over Luther, something stirred…

_"…Nor stand idle in the presence of wickedness…"_

His hands folded into fists. His pained visage began to vanish, putting great strength in its stead. He was sweating heavily, a war raging within him between his true will and Tol'Rath's control.

_"Let ruin find this sword before an evil hand…"_

And Luther was winning.__

_"And in a righteous hand, let this weapon never know defeat…"_

Tol'Rath neared Barok, the red Soulstone shard in hand…

_"May the Light prevail."_

The shard dropped out of Tol'Rath's hand as he heard a deafening shout fill the chamber. It was Luther, and it was definitely not the wailing of a broken man. It was the battle cry of a warrior who yearned for vengeance. Tol'Rath turned to see Luther's hand burst out of its shackles, backed with zealous strength. There was a dim glow to his body, and a brilliant white fire in his eyes, as he ripped the chains off his other hand and feet. He leapt off the altar, grabbing the angelic blade from the ground, and staring across the pentagram at the stunned necromancer.

"Vragath was correct, Tol'Rath!" Luther boomed, his voice surging with power and command that thoroughly shook the necromancer. "The Darkness shall not win victory this day!"

"What's going on!" Tol'Rath shouted, confused and frightened. "Get back on your altar! Obey me!"

"Thy hold over me is broken, necromancer!" Luther threatened as he strode forward, a holy power to each step. "I shall give thee one chance to surrender, before I put thy judgment into Heaven's hands!"

Tol'Rath frowned, his terror fleeing from his face as he realized that the paladin was in control of himself again. There was only one thing to do, for either of them.

"I choose to pass on that chance," Tol'Rath said, dagger in hand. Time seemed to freeze for a moment as the two faced each other, one a beacon of darkness, one an avatar of light. Tol'Rath's body seemed to take on a black outline, his eyes losing all feature and becoming wells of shadows, as he drew power from the blood of Mephisto in his veins. He rightfully thought that he would need all his power to take on Luther alone, while the paladin was fully on his guard. His dagger smoked black, infused with elemental darkness as the blade grew to the size of a longsword. If a poet had witnessed those few seconds of standoff, as they stared into each other's eyes, he could only have compared the Paladin to the glorious seraphim Tyr, and the Necromancer to the Supreme Evil Xerivoth, alone in their war at the Beginning. Luther's voice rang clearly through the chamber as he broke the silence with three words…

"So be it."

There was no sound as the two warriors charged at each other, there was only the explosion as the two blades met. No other man, wielding any other weapon could possibly have parried the thunderous force of Luther's blade; but Tol'Rath was empowered by a Prime Evil, and his weapon, the same that slew Mephisto, had been christened with the blood of the same. Even before the blades physically met, the clash of the entirely opposite auras sent sparks and thunder from the collision point. At the actual moment of impact, it was clear that opposites most certainly did not attract when good and evil were concerned; there was a violent explosion of light and heat at the point of contact, throwing both weapons and wielders far away from each other. Tol'Rath managed to flip around mid-air, landing gracefully on his feet, while Luther managed to stop himself in a kneeling position after a minimum of rolling. Instantly, both combatants rushed at each other for more. Luther raised his sword behind his head as he charged, Tol'Rath holding his down by his legs, as the two charged on a collision course. Luther's blade came crushing down, with Tol'Rath slashing upward. This time, they were ready for the impact this time as the weapons clashed with the same volatile result, and were able to brace themselves so as to only stumble back a step or two. Tol'Rath pressed on, aiming a quick slash at the Paladin's head. Luther raised his sword in both hands, holding it on a downward angle to intercept the dark blade. The two weapons locked hard, both combatants pushing with all their might to keep their grip on their sword and overwhelm the opponent. There was little contest there; for all his newfound powers, Tol'Rath had far from Luther's muscular strength. The paladin swung his sword to the side with great force, pushing Tol'Rath back and off his feet.

"The barbarian could swing a sword…it will take you more than that to defeat me!" Tol'Rath cried, leaping to his feet. The thought crossed his mind ot curse the paladin, but the odds were very small that such a spell would work against a being with such a potent holy aura around him. With no remains to call any skeletal minions up and not enough energy to spare for a golem, he pointed to both of his sides with mystic gestures, calling up two of the same ghastly apparitions that had knocked out Barok. Another gesture at Luther signaled the two wraiths to fly at their appointed target, howling like nightmares. Luther actually seemed to pay them no heed; indeed, he ran right on a collision course with the spirits. One of them received a quick slash from Luther's sword (the blade itself did nothing; the holy energy imbued in the weapon was the source of the damage), severing it in half and dispelling it. The other Bone Spirit managed to lay a skeletal hand on Luther's arm, only to be completely exorcized by his righteous aura. As stated, he had hardly paid the spirits any heed, and charged right at their master.

Tol'Rath, in a flurry of confusion, had barely lifted his sword when Luther delivered an armored elbow to his chest. Tol'Rath's eyes and mouth went wide in breathless pain and rage. His hands flew to his chest, covering the broken ribs beneath his robe; his sword clanged to the ground, where, severed from its masters power, it shrank back to dagger size. Tol'Rath fell to his knees in weakness, still without breath. A moment later, he gasped for breath as the ability to do so returned to him. Still catching his breath, he looked around on the floor frantically for his dagger, but the only weapon he saw was Luther's, as the paladin held the tip of his sword up to Tol'Rath's neck.

Tol'Rath sprouted a very displeased frown as his eyes looked up the blade at his victorious opponent. How could it be possible? He had gotten so close, so very close to victory. He had come so far, only to fail, just as the Evils were about to return…from that, for a split second, he strangely wondered why he had wanted to bring the Three back to life in the first place. The shadows left his eyes. What was he doing there? What…what had he done?…

The thought was interrupted by a desperate, unexplainable impulse (perhaps a safeguard by Mephisto to ensure the Necromancer's loyalty), an impulse to defeat the Paladin, to carry the day through to the end. His dagger seemed to call out to his mind; his hand, as though moving of its own accord, blindly dove out and wrapped its fingers around the hilt. His teeth were chattering, as though he had suddenly realized that everything he had known was a lie. His widened eyes followed his own hand with fear, as though he was watching some strange creature rather than an actual part of himself. Velanna's confession of her feelings had been the first step towards bringing Tol'Rath out of Mephisto's corruption, perhaps due to his own hidden feelings for the sorceress; this defeat at the hands of Luther had been the next. His loyalty to the Dark was waning, and the small bit of the spirit of Mephisto that had entered his body long ago beneath Travincal was now doing all it could to push Tol'Rath through to his task.

With a cry, and a purpose without desire, Tol'Rath reared himself up. His dagger was raised, ready to murder the holy warrior before him. Luther had seen this coming from a mile away, but rather than take his open chance to strike Tol'Rath through the neck, he instead drew his blade back a bit. Again he met Tol'Rath's attack with his own, though this time his slash was too low to strike the dagger blade itself in the necromancer's hand. But Luther had not intended to counter the dagger directly, and his aim concerning his true target was true…

Tol'Rath screamed as the angelic blade cut deep into his wrist, with such ease that it seemed to disregard the presence of flesh and bone. As Luther completed the slash, Tol'Rath's hand was freed from its master, and flew dagger and all away from the wrist. The hand stayed continued on its current course toward Luther; luckily, it had lost the driving force of Tol'Rath's arm, and the dagger bounced harmlessly off of Luther's armor. The hand continued forward, specks of blood flowing behind it, as it came to a fateful stop…

Tol'Rath's scream died down, the necromancer breathing sharply with the phenomenal pain as he desperately clutched the stump on the end of his arm. The severance of his hand had been so sudden and quick that there was actually very little bleeding, but it was no less of a shock to the necromancer. He stayed as he was, kneeling before the paladin. He was confused and, for the first time in a long time, he was afraid, really truly afraid, and not of the paladin either. The darkness had left his eyes entirely; Mephisto's blood was losing its power over him, and the young necromancer was beginning to feel all the pain and guilt of what he had done. Luther knew none of this, though; all he knew was that his foe was defeated. He growled as he towered over Tol'Rath, kneeling before him.

"For all thou hast done…" he growled as he held his sword at the side of Tol'Rath's neck. "…I am well-minded to send thy head the way of thy hand,"

"Then what holds you back?!" Tol'Rath demanded with erratic breaths, seemingly on the verge of tears, sounding like a child who has seen horrors no grown man should have to. "For what I have done, I deserve no better! End it, Luther! Pay me the reward of my sins!" he cried out. The demand caught Luther rather off guard; he had either expected the necromancer to feign a plea for mercy or grudgingly accept defeat. Instead, he received a response that seemed to be a repenting.

Luther hesitated. He was not a 'shoot first, ask questions after' kind of man; indeed, at heart, he was of the most forgiving variety. He had been ready to kill the necromancer at once, to save the world that Tol'Rath had sought to destroy. But now, he knew that he could not take the necromancer's life if Tol'Rath still had a chance at redemption.

Luther's armored hand took firm hold of the neck of Tol'Rath's robe. He easily lifted the broken necromancer with but a single arm, with his other hand, holding the sword, falling to his side. Luther brought him to eye level, an inch or two too high for Tol'Rath's feet to touch the ground; he dangled in the air, as Luther pulled him close, until hardly three inches separated their faces. Tol'Rath had been in a confused state of shock up until then; as he looked into Luther's eyes and the raging flames therein, saw the look of unconquerable strength and courage carved into his stony face, and even felt his hot breath searing his face, the necromancer's mind shifted from frightened shock to pure terror.

Tol'Rath's legs began flailing like mad, both his good hand and stumped arm rising to try and pry off Luther's iron grip. Futile; the paladin stood strong, hardly even acknowledging that his prey was offering struggle. Tol'Rath's mind was in too much of a frenzy to concentrate into any effective attack, and perhaps a little ironically, this was due to the presence of Mephisto's blood, remaining in Tol'Rath. That same dark force that had controlled him and led him to that place was the same that extinguished all hope of Tol'Rath escaping; the blood, still holding great sway over Tol'Rath's mind, was completely repulsed by the righteous aura of the paladin, desperately trying to escape it.

Luther growled with righteous fury. "Ye feel it, does thou not? Ye see it now, does thou not?! The folly of thy path, the weakness of thy masters!"

"RELEASE ME, FOOL!!" Tol'Rath cried desperately, struggling with all his strength. He screamed in alien tongues, words he had never learned and did not understand, calling up every curse and hex he knew, but in his weakened state he could summon up nothing that could compare to the overwhelming holiness of the paladin. Luther shook him, still only holding him by one hand.

"Does thou see it yet, Tol'Rath! The Dark has failed once more, and the Light has prevailed! So it has been, so it is now, so it shall be forevermore!" Luther shouted into Tol'Rath's flinching face, with force enough to make a stone be afraid. Tol'Rath shouted his demonic curses louder, more desperate, more terrified. His blood raced through his veins, the dark blood of Mephisto literally beginning toburn in the presence of such pure Light.

"Thy mad quest is over, necromancer; the failure of thy masters is complete at last! Renounce thy sins and thy dark master, Tol'Rath; in the sake of thy soul, renounce them and embrace the Light!" Luther commanded. Tol'Rath's screams had ceased to be coherent in any way; he was just howling in pain as he hung by Luther's hand. Luther preached on, not willing to let this lost soul, which he had knew to have good in it, be lost to Hell if there was hope.

"Throw thyself on Heaven which is merciful, Tol'Rath! Thou has traveled far down the dark path, but thou can yet return and mend thy ways!"

…Tol'Rath writhed in agony, the foul essence of Mephisto burning hot in its death throes as it coursed through Tol'Rath's veins…

…"Return to us, sorcerer! Return to us with penitence, and ye shall have forgiveness for thy crimes!"…

…The great wound that had replaced Tol'Rath's hand began to produce black steam; hot black tears flowed from his eyes and boiled away painfully.

…Luther brought his other hand up, and with both hands he shook the necromancer in the air like a rag doll. The cavern shook with his voice. "Repent, Tol'Rath! REPENT, I say!!"…

…Luther was suddenly thrown back, his grip on Tol'Rath broken, as a great force shot off of the necromancer's body. He stopped screaming, his face instead contorting in silent pain, his screams only suppressed by an apparent inability to breathe. Though Luther was no longer holding him up, his body remained suspended in the air, levitated by some supernatural force that Tol'Rath had no control over. A powerful, mysterious wind ripped through the hollow husk of the Heart Chamber, winds carrying black smoke and steam as it flowed out of every orifice of Tol'Rath. His mouth opened wide, as though he was choking on a large object, and a shaft of bright light shot forth from his throat. Spindly, ethereal fingers of bone jutted out of his mouth, and a grizzly specter crawled out of him; it was in the form of a skeleton, half the size of a man, wings on its back, and horns on its head. It did not exist in the physical sense, only in the spiritual; it was the part of Mephisto that had been invested in the necromancer when he slew the first of the Evils. And as it crawled out its host, it gave out a wail that echoed Tol'Rath's only ten times more ghastly. Having been wounded mortally by Tol'Rath's resistance and Luther's righteousness, it spent only a moment outside of Tol'Rath's body before it evaporated, its black essence exorcized forever.

The wind in the Chamber died away, and Tol'Rath collapsed to the ground. He was conscious, and moreover seemed to going through a difficult mental ordeal. He was kneeling on the ground, his elbows on the ground with his one good hand holding his face. Mephisto's blood was purged from his system; the tears he wept now were not black or crimson, but clear and of water, and he wept them freely. He was the man he had been once, the man who had not been fully alive since that fateful day in Mephisto's lair. And the weight of all his grievous sins crashing down on him at once put him in a mentality not unlike Velanna, who had only just ceased her tears.

"What…what have I done?" he softly demanded over and again. He did not expect an answer, but he got one as Luther strode up, towering over the freed sorcerer.

"Ye have returned to the Light," Luther stated, offering his hand to help Tol'Rath to his feet. The necromancer looked up with broken eyes, eyes very much like those Luther himself had worn not an hour ago. Grabbing the paladin's strong, armored hand, Tol'Rath hoisted himself up, shaking on his knees upon standing.

"No…no, Luther, don't let this be real…don't let this be real…" Tol'Rath muttered as he looked around. Everywhere he looked was another mark of his sins. To all sides, his friends were bound by his chains; to one side lay the Hell Golem, the monstrous construct that had caused so terribly many deaths; to another side, the corpse of the valiant demon Vragath lay motionless in a puddle of black blood, dripping into the grooves of the pentagram along with the blood from his own hand…

"Oh no…" Tol'Rath whispered, barely heard by Luther. "The blood thirst…is quenched…"

Before Luther could react at all, a small earthquake ripped through the Chamber as life began to slowly seep back into the heart of the World Beast. The grooves of the pentagram on the ground erupted into brilliant red light, as if they were etched out of molten metal. A column of light shot out from the hole in the center, growing smaller and smaller as the hole itself closed off.

"What is happening, necromancer?" Luther asked suspiciously looking around the chamber. The walls and floor were losing their similarity to rock; they began to contort and move, writhing with soulless life, making it clear that the place they were standing in was not dead stone.

"I thank you for saving me, Luther…" Tol'Rath said, sincerely and meekly. "But it is too late."

Another tremor shot through the Heart Chamber, this time knocking Tol'Rath and Luther clear off their feet. Tol'Rath, paniced though he was, did not stay down long; he shot to his feet, his hands fumbling through the pockets of his robe as he stumbled toward Velanna. He produced a thin metal ring, with a single key hanging on it. Velanna's eyes went wide as she looked up at the necromancer, clean of all traces of their earlier darkness. In a clumsy flash, he jammed the key into the lock that bound both of her hands, then that which held her legs. The sorceress still seemed in no hurry to go anywhere, laying with shocked, disbelieving eyes as she lay on her altar, watching Tol'Rath as he ran back to Luther.

The necromancer shoved his hands at Luther, clumsily handing him the key. "Take it! I thank you from the bottom of my heart for healing me, but the offering has been made!"

"What are ye saying, necromancer?! That we are all damned anyway?!" Luther shouted, the fire in his blood still burning bright.

"There is yet time. I…I can stop the process. Just take the key and get our friends out of here."

Luther looked down at the key in his hand, then back at Tol'Rath's eyes.

"If ye do not escape this place, I shall pray for you," Luther said as he bolted for Barok, then Marn, propping both warriors up on his shoulders(for lack of a healing potion to bring them back to consciousness). Taking their combined, considerable weight onto himself, he turned to the entrance and ran for all he had in him, leaving only death and pain and evil behind him.

Tol'Rath sighed, still scarcely able to comprehend what he had done. It was enough that he knew what was about to happen, and how to stop it. Rushing to his severed hand on the ground, he pried his dagger out of its grasp and held it in his remaining hand. He stood at the center of the pentagram, holding the dagger pointed down at arm's length, as he started chanting again.

_"White Worm, I call on thee again._

_Return here, and reclaim thy prize._

_That which was ash, remain ash._

_And that which was dust, dust._

_Life has come once; never again."_

He collapsed to his knees, driving his dagger into the center of the pentagram where the hole had once been. It clove the flesh cleanly, actually sinking straight into the flesh, into Heart of Trag'Oul, leaving a widening column of light in the small, growing puncture hole it had left.

Tol'Rath sighed again. "Then it is done. And now, I pay the rightful price for my sins…" He closed his eyes, thinking the thoughts of the end. He remembered leaving the City of the Dead, hoping to get who-knows-what out of the quest against the Three. He remembered all the people and beings he had met, fought, and fought with on that long, treacherous path. First and foremost, though, he remembered Velanna, all the travels and adventures they had shared since that fateful day beneath the Cold Plains, her laugh, her eyes……upon a moment's thought, he considered it only fitting that he did not realize the exact nature of his feelings for her until the very end, when he could not even see her again to say so much as goodbye, let alone…let alone "I love you".

He watched the hole getting wider and wider, the column of light growing with it. That puncture cut through to the center of the Heart; when it started beating again, the hole would rip open to be even larger, spouting blood by the thousands of gallons. It would be fatal to the World Beast; he would he dead before he could so much as wiggle a toe. It was only a matter of time; Tol'Rath had no time to run, as he had planned, and he did not care. It was only fitting that he should die in such a way, alone, the sole victim of his madness.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when another voice spoke up in the chamber.

"Tol'Rath?"

"Velanna!" Tol'Rath shouted, springing to his feet and turning to face her. She was standing next to her altar, her face still wet from tears, though she wept no longer. "What are you doing here! Run! You'll die here!"

"And what will I do if I live?" she asked, her voice creaking slightly, as she walked up to the young necromancer. "The Evils took everything from me, Tol'Rath. Through you, they took my home, my family, my friends. They almost took you, Tol'Rath…" she stopped right in front of him. "You're all I have left…I lost you once, I…I won't to lose you again."

Silence for a moment; all the communication needed was done through each other's eyes. It was moments later when they simply collapsed into each other, their arms wrapping around strong and pulling each other in for their first and last kiss, longer and more heartfelt than fifty lesser.

Tol'Rath only broke off because he felt the ground sinking beneath him, and he knew the end was upon them. Their arms binding them no looser; not but an inch separated their faces as they spoke their last words on the mortal plane.

"Farewell, my love," Velanna whispered.

"Farewell, love. I shall find you in the next life," Tol'Rath promised, just as the Heart convulsed in an attempt to beat. The floor gave out beneath them as the hole in the center tore open, poisonous, unholy blood flying in every direction at dreadful speeds. It was there that Velanna, the mage-girl who shares credit in the destruction of the Prime Evils, and Tol'Rath, the necromancer who paid with his life to be forgiven for his sins, died. They died as they had wished: together.

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"Damn it, where's that staircase!" Barok cursed, limping along on his own beside Marn and Luther. Luther's healing aura had been slow to work, and still hadn't done its job nearly well enough, but Barok and Marn could walk on their own now. Not that it seemed to matter; they were only now reaching the site of the battle earlier, halfway to the staircase, and they each had the distinct feeling that time was running out desperately short. A faulty assumption; time was not running out, time was up entirely.

"What is that sound?" Luther asked, his ear perking up to a rumbling in the distance. Marn turned back to the veil of darkness behind them, a veil which her eyes could pierce to an extent. She still couldn't see anything.

"I don't know, but it can't be good. What do we do?" Marn asked.

Luther thought about this for a moment…then fell to his knees and started praying.

"That's not encouraging at all, holy man," Barok said flatly.

"Do you think a Town Portal will work down here? I guess it's worth a try if we're….oh…Holy…Mother…" Marn suddenly faulted as her eyes got a glimpse of something in the distance. A tidal wave of blood; no other words can capture it. It was still distant; there was at least twenty seconds to impact. "Quick, I'm out of scrolls! Try a damn portal! I didn't beat the Lord of Destruction to get killed like THIS!"

Barok's hand whipped along his beltline, producing a scroll, opening it, and moving his hand over the symbol. The magic was invoked, the scroll disintegrated, and light flooded into the cavern as a blue gateway of light opened up to safety.

Luther stood up from his prayer, looked up, and thanked Heaven for salvation. They were about to step through, when Barok stepped back.

"Wait…we can't leave him here!" Barok insisted.

"What!? Get in the portal Barok!" Marn ordered.

"No…Cain's here! I won't leave his body behind!" Barok ordered as he ran among the corpses. Marn turned an uneasy eye to the onrushing wall of blood, sighed, and ran up with Luther, who was already running to help Barok. It didn't take long to find the body of the last Horadrim, and all hoisted him up, including his staff. Then, it was a mad dash back to the portal, a race between them and the wave…

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-------------------------------------------------**Epilogue**-------------------------------------------

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Ormus gently laid the bouquet down. He stood up tall from the graves below him, looking around at the docks, then looking at the three warriors next to him. "The only thing Ormus regrets is that these are only markers, that your friends' bodies stay where they lay. But wherever they died, they were heroes, as are you, and deserve heroic memorial." He looked down at the two grave markers below him, and at the in-progress statues being hewn out of stone above them in the likenesses of Tol'Rath and Velanna. Of course, Ormus was talking to the three surviving heroes, Barok, Marn, and Luther. It was only one day before when they had burst through a Town Portal with a corpse in tow and reeking like Mephisto's own carcass. Immediately upon hearing the news of what had happened, Ormus began the construction of a memorial for all of the heroes involved in the exploits of late. Tal'Rasha, Vragath, the Wanderer, Cain, all of the Five; all would be commemorated in time, but none would actually be laid to rest. Ormus had ordered for Cain, the only body to be recovered, to be transported east, to be entombed in the long-deserted tombs of the original Horadrim, the deeds of whom Cain had matched fully.

"I'm flattered, but I still think a statue is a bit…lavish…for someone raised in a dear-skin hut like me," Barok said sheepishly, getting a grin out of Marn.

"Ormus does not care if you were raised by the deer themselves. You and your friends ended the Sin War once and for all; this is the least we can do to repay you," Ormus said.

"What have I done to be repaid for? I have done my duty, and nothing more," Luther said stalwartly.

"If you want to repay me, give me a keg of mead and a soft bed and we'll call it even," Marn said, perfectly serious.

"Just give me my own keg; I'll be fine with her bed," Barok said. Both barbarian and amazon shared a wicked snicker in that. Ormus just smiled, probably the first time any of them had seen a smile out of him, and continued chipping away at the statues.

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Vragath's eyes opened to the same scene as earlier today: a sea of white, pure light, but this time the Audience Chamber of the Divine Council was no illusion, no nightmare. It was quite real, as was the fear in Vragath's heart.

The same voices as before, once again discussing Vragath. He tried to listen to their words, with limited success.

"Have you reached a decision, Councilor?" asked one of the awesome voices.

"I…I just can not decide. I cling to my old opinions, like I cling to my old age…but…seeing as how everyone else disagrees…" A pause.

"Excellent. Vragath of the Hells, kneel before me," the leader commanded. The demon was still shivering in fear, before the only beings in Creation that could instill that emotion in him. "Vragath, on many occasions have you sworn your allegiance to the Heavens and this Council, but, due largely to the isolation of your post, you have been unable to prove any loyalty you might have to us."

"It is not my fault! Please, you must listen, if I were placed in…" Vragath started. The head councilor ignored him, and continued speaking. The next words would ring in Vragath's head for the rest of his existance.

"Vragath, in light of your recent display of courage and determination against the Darkness, it is the decision of this Council to grant you a full and unconditional pardon for all your former affiliation with the Burning Hells. You are to serve with the Arch-Angel Tyrael as his personal bodyguard and battle-servant, to follow him into combat and wield your sword with his. Now, Vragath, go forth, neither Angel nor Demon, but friend and soldier of these High Heavens. You…are forgiven…"

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It is here that these tales come to an end. With the final defeat of the Prime Evils, the Sin War over humanity was over at last, and only one battle of demons, angels, and men remained before the Great Conflict as well was over. But that is another tale entirely.

In the years before the End, Vragath developed great loyalty and friendship to Tyrael, who had just as recently been reappointed to the service of Heaven. Both Tyrael and Vragath fought valiantly in the final battles of the Great Conflict, and both died heroes' deaths on those last torn battlefields.

Luther is attributed with the restoration of Kurast and the temples therein to their former glory. After cleansing the city and restoring its surviving occupants to their old homes, Luther was appointed the new Que-Hagen of the renewed Zakarum church, a role which he served justly and zealously until the end of his days.

Little is known of the fate of Marn and Barok; they traveled west together, and were never seen again until the Final Battle(beside Tol'Rath and Velanna, and the Horadrim of old). Years later, a young woman arrived in Kurast, carrying a sword and bow on her back. She and Ormus spoke at great length, and she gave him the weapons, which he immediately laid before the statues of Barok and Marn. The woman, it was later discovered, was named Velanna, and was the eldest daughter of Barok and Marn, who had passed on.

It was not long after the demise of Tol'Rath that a number of young necromancers arrived, distressed, at Kurast. These were the other necromancers who had embarked against Diablo and, luckily, were late in returning home. The City of Rathma had been brought to ruin during Trag'Oul's destruction, and they had nowhere to go. It was thus to the boundless vexation of Que-Hagen Luther that Kurast became the hub of both Zakarum AND necromancy. The following incidents were actually rather amusing, as the young, eager necromancers did not cling to the ancient traditions of Rathma like their forefathers had, and not only did they intermarry, but many also converted to Zakarum(while still adhering to necromancy). Luther had to fight long and hard to prevent the introduction of skeletal altar boys, to provide one example of the incidents that arose.

The Light and the Darkness had not finished their fighting, as they soon would. But that, as I have said, is another story, for another time.

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--------------------------------------------------The End----------------------------------------------

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Whoa…do you realize that this chapter was longer than all the other six put together? I mean, 26 pages…I know some writers lift up their leg, crap out a 30 page chapter, and the ensuing dialogue is something like this:  
Writer: "Hm, 30 pages? That's a nice chapter size." (to cowriter) "Hey, Louie! Give me 9 of these, won't ya?"

Cowriter: "Ah, nothing like a nice, medium-length, fic, is there?"

Oh well, I'm happy with my 50 page story, thank you very much.

Disclaimer: The White Worm mentioned in Tol'Rath's chanting is a character by Werecat, who I plan to use, with credit given where credit is due, in Great Conflict.

Speaking of which, I AM planning another Diablo fic: Great Conflict. It is, essentially, the Diablo Bible, the Blizzard equivalent of the Silmarillion(shudder). It starts in the beginning, before the Prime Evils were even created, and ends at the very, VERY end. You know the Norse legend of Ragnarok? That's how this thing ends. I'm very excited about it, though I can't promise any release dates as I've neglected Ash to Ash, Dust to Dust for way too long.

You read the story, now tell me what you think. If you don't…well, the ownership of your first-born child may be in question. Remember, the review box is right down there(assuming you're on fanfiction.net), and my email is [darkpoot@yahoo.com][3]

   [1]: mailto:foilman1@usa.net
   [2]: http://www.geocities.com/darkforcepro
   [3]: mailto:darkpoot@yahoo.com



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